


Jonsa Prompts

by Buttercup_Bee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Cousin Incest, Cunnilingus, Dark Sansa, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lyanna Mormont is gracious and I love her, Miscarriage, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Sad Ending, Smut, Tragedy, Unrequited Love, see you all in hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 88,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7471932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_Bee/pseuds/Buttercup_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are prompts that I've received on Tumblr, I thought I'd give them all one location as I have been asked to do so a few times. Not all the tags are in yet. More are to come with each new prompt. And if any have prompt's they'd like to ask, just let me know in the comments. I'll be more than happy to fulfill them! Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A True Song

**Author's Note:**

> karlaromualdo asked: Ok this is the first prompt I don't send in anonymity so I really hope you like it. Jon and Sansa marring: "And looking at him she finally understood love was like that, the more you chase it, the more it will elude you. But when she finally turned her attention to other things, it came and softly presented itself in the person she had least expected"

***

***

Sansa had spent a life time believing in knights, songs, and the happy ending that came with it all. That life had ended the day her father lost his head. Melodies were nothing but strings out of tune, stories were nightmares turned real, and knights were nothing but a myth.

How could someone brave and compassionate live in a world like this? Even so, with disparity, she searched for it. Sansa had looked to Sandor Clegane, a stupid little girl who saw a man- who happened to wear armor. He’d saved her once. And in her eyes that was enough to call him her knight. Her prince.

In the end he was just a dog, like the rest of them. Despite her distaste she had reached out to lord Baelish. Believing that he might offer such comfort. Nothing romantic.

Even if Sansa knew that was his own intention. Like the foolish thing she was she went after him. Supported his thoughts and idea’s, simply because she had no where else to go. No one else to treat her like a lady.

No one to give her warmth.

She’d lost it the day he offered her to the Boltons. A week there and she had lost hope in that song. While it had been soft, nearly destroyed, a small part of her had searched. Now she was broken. Nothing pretty was left, only suffering and agony. A welling despair to run and hide. And she does. She runs. As far north as she possibly could. Sansa thinks back on it now, how stupid Ramsay had been to speak of Jon.

To let her know of his status. That he could protect her if she ran fast enough. And she had. Finding him at the wall had been such a relief. Seeing his face, once a torment now a blessing. In that moment she swore to fend for herself and home. There were no knights, no happy endings, life was not a song. She may be the little bird of Kings Landing, but she did not sing for them any longer.

Finally, she had turned her attention to other situations, ones in dire need of her help. Taking back Winterfell had been the first. Killing Ramsay, the second. Keeping the North, being the hardest, and one she had been utterly devoted to. The only thing she had focused on was home.

She needed it. Despite the horrors she had faced it was the one bright thing still awaiting her. The only dream she had left in this world. The only song that still hummed in her ears.

And it wasn’t until one day, sitting with Jon, laughing and smiling, she realizes how horrible life had been. To turn on her like this. To search for love and not find it, and then to see it right in front of her.

Sipping on wine and laughing. Simply because she had muttered a curse. Spilling wine onto her skirts. Jon had been the one to clean them off, lowering himself so he may dry the skirts of the crimson.

Her heart quickens, her stomach coils, and she hates everything she feels. It had come slowly, gradually taking her over, presenting itself in the most unlikely person. She hadn’t even noticed it until now. Not the gazes she’d offered, her touching or hoping. It had never occurred to her until that moment, where he knelt and put her before him. Her face scrunches up as if she had just ate something sour. Unworthy for her tongue.

Sansa was disgusting. She loved her own brother. And not in a way a sister should. Oh, how funny the Gods were. To play with her like this. When she has searched far and wide to find a knight willing to save her.

Only to find the man worth keeping close is her half-brother. Sansa had felt as if she should bathe in that moment, scrub the thought clean. But now she can only imagine him, soft lips pressed against her forehead once more.

That look in his eye, the way they shine when they catch glimpses of her red hair.

Of course, in the end the dirt in mind had left. Swept away as her feelings grew. And when the dragon Queen had come to take him away, declared him the lost prince of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, she fought with all her might. The guilt far gone.

And here she was now. A smile creeping towards her lips as her hand is tucked under his own, a thick string wrapping about their palms. As to bind them, as husband and wife. Her heart understood now. The more you chased, the further it ran. Sansa was done running, done chasing, she had waited. And was presented with a kind, unlikely man, willing to have the world quake before her.

To move mountains aside just to keep her by his side. To hold her close, brush his lips up against her skin- she was safe with him. An honorable and trustworthy man. A King. And when he tears the dire wolf from her shoulders and replaces it with black and red, fire and blood, three dragons to hold them close- she feels as if she is in a dream.

Stuck in Kings Landing, resting after she had been beaten. Or curled up in the tower, where Ramsay had shoved her away.

This was love. He was her knight. Who had come back from the wall, just to save her. To save their home. Sansa decides that night, when he beds her, that he is her home now. Not only Winterfell, but this blessing of a man who had spent his love on her. Who has given her everything. Warmth and love.

She would protect him the way he had her.


	2. A Monster for a Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> karlaromualdo asked: And I may seem overly enthusiastic but here goes another one, this is mostly just Sansa but I read this quote and thought of her "Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?"

***

***

Sansa watches from a distance, eyes narrowed when she finds lord Baelish in the shadows. Crept between large northern men, all bulky and large, built up enough to break him. If they wished to. The thundering of declaration drowning her thoughts as they meet each other, his eyes stuck to her own. As if he were all knowing.

Though she leaves him when Jon grips at her shoulder, a leaden weight in dire need of support. She looks to him, softens her stare, and smiles up at him once more.

Reassuring, so he did not feel the guilt she was certain stained him as of right now. Sansa decides to ignore Baelish for the time being. Jon needed her.

 

* * *

 

It’s when a moon has passed that she understands Littlefinger’s intentions. He didn’t like Jon, that much was obvious. Or it had been to her. Other’s not so much.

However, the dislike was mutual.

The King did not enjoy his presence, always meeting the mockingbird with a sorted glare and biting teeth. They despise one another. Sansa, at first had been worried.

Lord Baelish was a dangerous man. She knew that all too well. Yet a twist, a churn inside her told her to push on. A whisper that claimed she was no longer a bird to hide, to wait as she was slowly devoured. And Sansa did not like the looks Petyr gave Jon.

As if he had won something. Jon, being as oblivious as he is, does not recognize the stare. But Sansa did. And the last thing she wanted for for Petyr to harm Jon. To take everything from them. So she creates a plan. A way to get rid of this man. A snake with wings. And a mocking tone. It takes time, to conjure something as devious as she had.

And yet it had only taken her another moon. While short for others, it was quite long compared to Littlefinger, and his way of thinking. Nevertheless, she was more than prepared to make an attempt on his own life. The only way to get rid of a snake such as him was to take his head. To take what he knew before she spilled blood. And she had been sly about it..

How had he planned to take the Iron throne? What made him so sure of himself? What debt did the houses of the seven kingdoms owe him? Sansa realizes, after answering all of her questions, he trusts her too much.

The poor man.

He has taught her too well. As if she would truly wish to sit by his side, give him children and love him? She was nothing but a reincarnation of her mother in this mans eyes, a piece in the game he loved so much. The game he has taught her to play as well. He didn’t see, even as he proclaimed to be introspective, to see things no one else does.

But now Sansa has him under her thumb, and she will not release until she gets everything she wants. And that’s safety for Jon.

 

* * *

 

The day she takes him for a walk, Ghost by her side, Petyr on the other. He believes she wished to take him in secret. A kiss, perhaps? She didn’t know what he expected. She takes him the ramparts, overlooking the dusting hills and rolling clouds. The sun does not shine. Good. She didn’t want it to. Not with what she as about to do.

Sansa and him pivot to a stop, closer than she was comfortable with. His shoulder brushing against her own. And she know’s why he does it- for she had worn his favorite gown. Made of sable and feather. Sansa takes a breath. She truly didn’t need to keep him this long, but she wanted the surprise. To have it stain his features and paint over constantly in mind.

“Tell me again.” She murmurs to his ear, a soft smile on her lips. She can feel the pride waft off of him. It disgusts her.

He sighs. “You already know, my dove.” She cringes at the name. But she wants to here it one more time. Before she does what she is about to do. Before she takes action.

Leaning in closer, brushing her fingers along his arms she whispers “You see yourself on the throne, who is next to you?” He smirks at her, a wanton whisper is what she gives.

It’s low and seductive, the best she can perform. And he’s fallen for it. “You, my love.” She smiles, it’s sweet- but the bitterness is there for him to see.Like the blind fool he is, he doesn’t catch it as he should.

“And you plan to kill Jon for this throne?” Because he is a threat. “So I may have Winterfell?”

Petyr chuckles. “Yes, of course, anything you wish for.” Truly, at this point, she thought him worse than Jon. He shouldn’t have trusted her.

He shouldn’t have believed she’d sit and wait to be devoured. Oh no, she was not that little girl, stupid and dreamless, she was a player now. She was a monster, just like him, and while she hated it, a small part of her loved it.

She had _power_.

When he turns to look at her, hand enveloping the back of her neck, leaning in as to kiss her; her hands come to his chest.

And before he can reach her lips, he’s falling. She watches, for the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. That’s what father always said. Sansa was a Stark, and if he truly deserved this death, she would not look away.

The sickening sound of crumbling bone, and the smack of his head as it grates the gates of Winterfell, she grimaces.

He was dead. The giant had been defeated. And she knew everything. How to control those around her, to take what she wanted- and she wanted Jon’s safety.

In the end, she had won it.


	3. Fuck you Littlefinger. (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cruyffsbeckenbauer asked: This has been done over a dozen times but I need more. Littlefinger realizing Sansa is in love with Jon and he will never have her
> 
> Smut warning.

***

***

When Jon is first declared King, he expects Sansa to be angry. Furious with the man who took her inheritance. And for a time, she is, but for all the wrong reasons. For Jon understands, it would seem, and gifts her everything he possibly could. Lands, titles, he goes as far as to name her his heir. And if she is ever to produce any children, they would take his throne.

It only takes three days before she seems content with what has happened. And Petyr despises it. Where was the fury? The hatred? The anger towards her half-blood brother? He had depended on the fury. He had expected it. After declaring his blood more than once, and her right to rule over the North.

It was almost unnatural. It grows worse when she shows her trust. A trust he had lost. Sansa always finds a way to touch him, gifts him with smiles and warm hugs. She has even laughed with him.

More than once in a day. And here he is now, watching the two in the courtyard, a frown on his face. They had just left a council meeting, for Jon never has one without her. He’s delayed them multiple times if Sansa hasn’t made it when they have started.

He trusts her.

More than he ever would with ser Davos or that wildling, Tormund. It infuriates him, more and more he see’s Cat and Ned. See’s the bond developing under loose lips and snide comments, brief hugs and short kisses. He thinks the world around him a fool, because if he can see the attraction, how can no one else? Even as that beast of a woman follows, she doesn’t seem to have the slightest idea. Though it does not surprise him. She couldn't recognize her own attraction to the Kingslayer.

Licking his lips, he sighs. He couldn’t have this. He couldn’t have history repeat itself. Sansa was his. He was entitled to her. After everything he’s done for her. Helping her win back her home, taking her from Kings Landing, he made her. Turned her into the player she was meant to be. And now she has ignored him, feigns ignorance as to keep him around.

For what? He does not know, surprisingly enough. She’s hidden everything. Every clue, every play of hers. Perhap’s she wants him to watch. Wants him to see the evolution in Jon and her’s relationship. As punishment for what he had done.

For who he sent her to, in her desperate time in need. Either way, he wouldn’t allow history to repeat itself. Sansa was his. And he would claim her, if not now, in the future.

 

* * *

 

He finds her in her solar, alone, and sewing. A small little frame of a rose- he know’s what it’s for. Lady Margaery. They had received a raven yesterday with news of what had happened. Sansa was heartbroken. The moment she stole the letter away from Jon, during their council, her eyes had waters and she hid her face from everyone else. All but Jon.

Who held her until her body stopped shaking. Even demanded that everyone leave them alone, so he may comfort her in privacy. Petyr had only been there, due to the fact he had been the one to bring the Vale soldiers. Jon felt it necessary he join them on occasion. The fool. Either way, he had found her alone, vulnerable. Just as it should be. Just as it had been when he took her from the lions den.

She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t reward the man before her with her attention. Instead she focuses on the flower blooming through thread. He assumes she plans to send it to lady Olena. As a parting gift.

“Sansa.” He chimes, an attempt to get her attention. She still doesn’t look up, instead she hums.

“What is it?” Petyr can feel the coldness around her, the ice settled within her bones and the frost filling her veins.

Petyr casts a glance towards the fire, the hearth plowed with logs. Overly done, if he might add. The bastard must have been here earlier, for Sansa does not worry over the heat.

She is used to the cold.

The King on the other hand was a different story. He fussed over her until he couldn’t breathe. A natural reaction, he supposes. “May we speak?” She looks to him, finally, and to his surprise her eyes are dry. There is no rimming of red, nor stains lining her cheeks. In fact, they look cold, an empty space of glacial distance.

“Certainly.” Her voice is high, but he can hear the anger in her tone. Has he done anything to upset her?

He couldn’t tell these days. Perhaps he has taught her too well. “We need to speak of your King.” She lifts a brow.

“Oh?” Crossing one leg over the other, she almost looks amused.

Petyr wouldn’t say he felt uncomfortable, but she was hardly inviting. “Yes.” He is careful in how he describes his thoughts. He’d ruined one marriage, and can stop this one before it happens. “Do you truly believe that you will stay his heir?”

Sansa frowns. “Yes. Why?” Petyr shrugs.

“What if he marries?” Her nose scrunches, if only a little, almost as if in disgust. And disapproval. It looks so much like Catelyn’s. “If he has children, what will you do then?”

Sansa shrugs. “I don’t know.” She doesn’t seem at all worried. Not like she had been when he had spoke to her under the Weirwood. Asking her who should rule, who the land belonged to.

Instead, she’s calm. Uncaring. He doesn’t say anything. “Is that all?” Query digs deep in his sternum, and he lifts a brow. “Good.” She stands, straightening her skirts. “I hope to see you at the feast, lord Baelish.” Her tone is fake.

As is her smile.

 

* * *

 

He understands her calm now. Oh, he understands. As he hides behind a caved wall, bathed in sable and broken stone; the burnt and destroyed section of Winterfell, all thanks to the Greyjoys. And he can see and hear. The way Jon has her pressed against the wall, her nails digging into him in wanton.

He has her pinned, head at the joint of her neck and shoulder, leaving heavy kisses as he trails downwards. And all he can see is Ned and Catelyn- Of course, Sansa is more beautiful than Catelyn ever was. But the immersion was broken with the bastard. That Sansa was in fact herself, and not her lady mother. For he looked like his father, a father they shared. That didn’t seem to bother either of them.

His hands play with her skirts, riding them up as she gasps. Her lips blooming like a rose as they open, a small slant as to breathe. She says something, it’s almost inaudible, but he hears it.

“Touch me.” She demands, and the King listens. His hand disappearing under her layers of skirts, and she hums in delight. Her head pressing into the stone in disparity. Leaning into his touch. He groans, arm moving as his mouth claims her neck. Her hands flinging to his heir, crowning the back of it all as she pulls away the fabric, the small string that had kept his hair up.

His other hand moves to her breast, molding it into his hand through cloth. Fingers squeezing and groping. A anger wells in Petyr. The attraction had been obvious. He had never thought on them to act upon it. For the bastard was too ‘honorable', and Sansa having been done with men. He nearly growls when he finds the bastard slowly leaving her neck, dropping to her knees-

His head leaning in and under her gown, and she yelps in surprise. And moans, blessed and beautiful, she moans again and again. Encouraging his actions. He can only imagine it, licking her cunt, tasting her. And for a moment he imagines it is himself. His legs quiver when she sings his name.

Has it dripping from her lips until she looks as if she might drop, fall to the ground. And when she releases, her head swinging into the wall, her eyes close shut.

The bastard leaves her thighs, a smile on his face as he licks his lips, and in the smallest of tones he murmurs “Did you like that? Me tasting you?” It was obvious it was his first time ever doing such a thing to her. And she loved it. Her cheeks red, eyes glazed and hair mussed.

She smiles, nods, fingers running through his black curls. They look too much like Ned and Cat. And it rage burns inside. Yet he does nothing but watch.

“You should do it more often.” She pleads, kissing him before he can reply. Pulling him close. One hand moving to his breaches, untying the laces with deft fingers.

Which meant she’d done everything else. With how quick she is with it all. Sansa is the one pulling up her own skirts, spreading her legs as he lifts her against him. He can’t see the Kings cock, but when he enters Sansa, her legs clamp and her mouth curls, he must fill her quite nicely. The bastard grunts with his first thrust, careful with her, as if she were glass.

That is until she bites his neck, licks at his ear, he’s moving in her and stealing her breath. Keeping her lung from taking in the oxygen. Bounces her up and down until she is moaning his name once more, burying her face between his shoulder and neck.

Yes. Now Petyr understood as to why she did not worry. She already had him. Petyr turns away, silently, a scowl painting his features.

He had to get rid of the bastard.

 

* * *

 

Petyr had been foolish. Stupid. Much too trusting. He hadn’t told Sansa anything, yet she had figured it all out. He betrayal, his knowledge of Ramsay, and his intentions towards her King and lover. After finding his true parentage, the North had scrambled to get him off the throne, Petyr had encouraged he leave. That the north call him a traitor. That is until Sansa offered marriage. Of course she had. It’s a bitter thought.

Everything he has fought against now coming back to bite him in the ass.

He sits in a cell as they wed, trapped with the dirt and the cold moonlight. And he knows, tomorrow, in the early morning, she’d have his head.

And it would be her dragon to take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMutty.


	4. Panties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> faithfullydefective asked: Idk if you do modern au's but if you do anything would be great I just rly like modern au's thanks!

***

***

Sansa is seated up front, next to Jon as Robb piles into the back. A long frown draining him of all enjoyment. Sansa usually allowed him to sit up front with Jon, but he had just come back from work across sea’s. She’d rather be close than in the back seat.

Of course, they’d been close all night, but that didn’t equate to holding his hand as that smile of his pinched his cheeks. Robb whips out his cell phone. Leaning up between them, as the annoying brother he is, holds it out with an extension cord. “Plug it, would you?” Jon shakes his head, connecting it to the aux cord.

Sansa hums. “Where are we going again?” Robb shrugs.

“I thought we were going to the movies?” Jon sounds confused. Robb shrugs again.

“I thought you two were going on a date.” They both look back at him. Sansa raising a brow. “What? I didn’t think you’d bring me.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Yes, because we’d bring you to our date.” Jon snickers, pulling out of the drive way.

“Well, we’ve done that before-”

“Yeah, but that was because Jeyne dumped him.” It’s Robb’s turn to lift a brow. Sansa snaps her lips shut. “Sorry.” She bites her lip in guilt, Robb sighing.

Robb leans back into the seat, and it’s silent for some time. Until they’re half way to the movies that he makes a sound of disgust. “Sansa?” Huffing, she turns to look at him.

“What?” Her eyes stray to the side, where black lace peeks from the side of the leather seats. She freezes before she says anything else.

Robb looks as if he might throw up. “Are those…” Sansa doesn’t respond. A bright blush creeping to her cheeks. “Dammit Jon, why’d you let me sit where you…you know, with my sister…and-”

Jon turns his head, if only for a moment, a frown on his face. Sansa panics for a moment before saying ”Don’t worry, Jon cleaned the seats.” That only makes things worse. Of course it did. In what right mind does someone say that? Robb unbuckles his seat belt, moving from the seats until he’s squished between the edge of leather and Sansa’s own seat.

“That doesn’t make it better.” He clips, glaring at both of them. “I demand you let me out.” Jon shakes his head.

“Robb, I can’t. I’m driving.” Robb huffs loudly.

“I don’t care, let me out-”

“I’m driving.” Jon huffs.

“Jon, I just sat where you slept with my sister, I don’t give a damn if you cleaned it. That. Is. My. Sister. And she was naked there. I don’t want to sit there. So either I sit up front or I leave.” Sansa rolls her eyes, the blush fading.

Sansa unbuckles, shimming her way to the back much to Jon’s distaste. Robb is quick to slide up, shoe bumping into Jon’s head. It’s silent again, until Robb says “If I ever find something like that again, I swear Jon, I will kill you.”

Jon smirks. “I’m dating your sister, did you expect there to be no sex involved?” Robb glares.

“No, I expected to not know or hear of it and pretend it didn’t happen.” Robb snaps. “Never. Again.”

“Aye, Aye, sir.” Jon responds.


	5. Drunk n' Jealous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> albusdumblewhore7 asked: Jon is drunk and jealous of the way lord cerwyn/any male protagonist that would make sense looks at Sansa and finally spills how he feels

***

***

Jon slumps into his seat, bringing the leaden ale to his lips in a sigh. They’d finally celebrated his coronation, one he’d refused but Sansa had pushed. Like she always did. Not that he minded. She pushed him to do many things. A great deal of them good.

Fingers tapping on the mug he slants his head to the side, watching as she ate. Little Lyanna Mormont beside her, smiling as lord Cerwyn says something. Though it would appear Lyanna had only smiled because of Sansa, not the man.

Jon bristles at the sight, lifting a brow as Sansa buries her head into a small hand. Such a dainty thing, made of ivory and steel. And when the lord leans in, a glint in his hue, his body stills. He feels as if the chamber has grown quiet, even as the hiccuped laughter grows louder than thunder itself.

Sansa laughs again, or a giggle, it appears to be soft. Flirtatious even. A bashful simper playing her lips as the lord holds his hand out. As if to dance. She nods, taking his hand. Before he can lead her away Jon finds himself scrambling to sit up, marching towards the two in a drunken wobble. When his hand clasps around Sansa’s shoulder she spins to face him.

Her smile disappears, only the smile, the rest of the amusement still lying upon her features. Lord Cerwyn bows.

“My King.” He utters, nervously almost. And it isn’t until he feels the knit in his brow he knows he must look aggressive, angry, full of a troubled ire that refuses to leave him. And it confuses more than it should.

“I need to speak with lady Sansa.” He says, the slur light and he’s proud of himself. Without the slur she almost looked as if she took him seriously. Lord Cerwyn nods, leaving Sansa to Jon.

Sansa watches as the lord leaves, and Jon watches her, imprinting every feature she holds close to mind. As to keep her there forever. He does it many times. Out of fear of the unknown. Anything could happen. When she turns, her eyes landing on his, the query is there as well as mirth.

She gives a slight curtsy, before asking “What is it you need, your grace?” The tone is mocking almost, an enjoyment laced in between.

He doesn’t answer. Jon’s never been this drunk, but many had insisted he let go. Well, that many had been Tormund. Who’d kept serving him ale and mead, sometimes wine, forcing the new King in the North to get ‘drunk off his balls’, that’s what Tormund had said at least.

Sansa lifts a brow, questioning his odd attitude with one look. Jon sighs, a heavy breath as he pulls her out of the large chamber. Where Northern lords and the wild folk dance and drink. All of them getting along, much to Jon’s surprise. None of them were different from the other, that had been made obvious. One set of people just happened to be on the other side of the wall when it was built.

Sansa willingly follows, much to his relief, he didn’t want to worry her. Even in his drunken state he was concerned with his touch, how it affected her. After so much terror, horrid abuse she’s endured- he could only imagine. And he’s certain that cannot supplicate what she has gone through. The thought of Ramsay Bolton has his blood in a sated boil. He was dead but Jon still had the urge to beat him to death once more.

A grave urge. He found it best to direct it towards Littlefinger, as Sansa had pointed out. His hostility towards the old man had been nothing but honest and hateful. Everyone recognized the hatred he had towards lord Baelish. And Sansa hadn’t stopped it. It only lead him further to hating the man. Because she had allowed it. It let him know she thought he deserved it as well.

When they reach the hallway, dark shadows where the sconces have failed to light, he drags her to a specific patch of candle light, where her back sits in the warm shine and his in the cold moonlight.

He doesn’t say anything, in fact he’s forgotten what he had planned to say, if he had planned at all. All he know’s is he did not enjoy the sight before him and wanted her out.

How could the lord touch the lady of Winterfell so carelessly? She was _his_ lady. Jon didn’t care if she had allowed it. A man so low should not be permitted to touch something so precious, beautiful, so caring and lovely. It wasn’t his right.

They stand a moment in silence, until Sansa breaks it. “Jon, are you okay?” Her voice has a minimum of concern, the rest is lightly battered with merriment. He licks his lips, watching as she becomes a blurry masterpiece. The light caste upon her skin almost draws her luminescent, a sight irremediable, it has his heart thumping so loudly he fears she might hear.

As if it would matter. Why does it? He’s drunk. This was a natural reaction, was it not? She was his sister- cousin. She was his _cousin_. As Bran had stated previously. As did the letter signed by his mother in fathers…In his uncles chancery. He’d only known two nights. Perhap’s that’s why he’d been so easily swayed into drinking so much?

Mayhap’s that is why he looks to Sansa in such bewilderment and curious want. Jon had known his feelings for her had been far from brotherly, but he had kept it hidden and tucked away. It hadn’t truly itched until he found the truth. Because to love your sister is wrong, but your cousin? He was certain the Gods forgave, allowed it, and kept the vows between such blood close.

His mother’s parents were cousins. Ned’s parents were cousins- what made it wrong for him to feel the way he did? He shakes his head, finally, eyes drooping to the floor. “Why was he speaking with you?” Sansa tilts her head.

“We were just conversing Jon, he is fun to speak with.” She moves forward, keeping his shoulders stilted to the wall as to keep him up. “And because I allowed it. He is handsome.” He stirs, his frown deepening at her words.

“What?” He questions, deep grey eyes blending into her Tully blue, so bright- as if the stars and moon lit the hue themselves.

Sansa leans forward. “I said he is handsome.” His glower hardens, and he scoots from her. Sansa frowns now, sauntering forward. “Perhaps you should lie down, I think you are too drunk to continue-”

“Handsome?” He spits. A tone unknown to Sansa. A tone of jealousy- or in this case, envy. “Are you going to wed him?”

Sansa lifts a brow. “What, no Jon.” She says softly. “Why would I wed…That is, unless you want me to.” Her voice drops in uncertainty.

Jon peaks in annoyance, not towards her, but the handsy lord. “I’m going to speak with him.” He declares. Refusing to answer her question. “And I am going to beat him to a-”

“Jon, you need rest.” Sansa insists, seemingly understanding his mood. She pulls back on his arm, knocking him off balance. She gasps when he falls to the ground. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” He stands, shaking his head, the blurred lines of life easing into reality after a moments hesitation. “Yes, I am.” He begins to walk, swaying to the side as Sansa catches him.

“I’m taking you to bed.” Jon looks to her, eyes widening at the comment. How could she be so blunt?

He didn’t think Sansa to do such a thing, nor did he think her comfortable. He didn’t feel comfortable. “I don’t think so.” He answers, attempting to pull away.

“Jon, you nee-”

“I am not going to bed you.” He says, sternly with a stale, featureless face. His full lips down turned.

Sansa looks to him in confusion and awe, a strange mix. “What?” It’s as if the word came out half hanged, straining at the end.

Jon stumbles, before pulling her close. “I will never lay with you, not unless we wed.” Jon mumbles, pulling her into a hug. “Not unless you approve.” The words keep falling as he adds “I’ve waited a year, what’s another?”

Sansa doesn’t move, bones stiff and breath hot. “Waited a year?” His hand draws to her bright hair, carding through the strands. She doesn’t lean in as she usually does. “To bed or wed me?” Her tone is accusing, frightened, a tad uncertain.

“To wed you.” He hums, plunging his nose into the base of her hair line, breathing her in. She takes a deep breath, leaning into his touch.

“You wish to wed me?” She says hopefully.

“Aye.” Jon feels as if he’s floating. “I would love for you to be my wife, Sansa. I love you.” It’s silent after his words have sprung free.

Her breath hitches. “You love me?” she tests, as if the concept were foreign. Jon nods into her head.

“I love you more than should be acceptable.” Her arms wrap around his waist, hands clambering to his shoulder blades as she tightens their embrace.

Her face wedged between his neck and shoulder. And softly, barely above a whisper, she draws her lips to his ear as she croons “I love you, too.” It’s heartfelt, tired, and inexplicably weighted in adoration. He’s happy, until he’s falling back into a deep slumber.

 

* * *

 

Jon wakes, sunlight streaming onto his face. His eyes burn at the feel of it, the windows without curtains, the bright orb gleaming beyond belief. He groans, shifting as the pound in his head elevates. When he looks to his side he freezes, Sansa sits, a pair of stockings in hand as she sews with delicacy. “You fainted.” She says simply.

He doesn’t remember much, but he does remember holding Sansa in the hallways, for how could he forget the scent of lemon cake and pine? Of flora and soap. “I did?” He asks in query. She nods.

“Yes.” Plying her needle through evenly she adds “And you brought me down with you.” Her eyes meet his own, a piercing ice that colors him in worry.

Had he hurt her? “I am sorry, Sansa-”

“Do you remember anything?” Her voice, in some sense, is hopeful. A tone he’s never heard. At least, not when things were at peace and she didn’t need it.

He tries to think, simply because it sounds important to her, but he can only remember holding her. “No.” He slowly answers, pulling himself up. Sansa can be blunt, especially when she wishes for something to go her way. Even so, he can hardly believe with how straightforward she becomes in this very moment.

Because he doesn’t believe his ears.

“You said you loved me. And that you wished to wed.” She doesn’t look away. “Was that that the mead or did you truly mean that?”

Jon doesn’t keep it hidden, or think, nor does he wait when he replies with “Yes...I mean, I meant it." It’s quick, abrupt, unexpected from both parties involved and he worries he might have just pushed her away. Did she want him to say that? Was that the correct answer? Would she hate him for loving her?

His concern washes when she smiles, it’s small, but beautiful. A delight to his hue. “Good.” She hums, setting down the stockings and arcing forward. Capturing his lips with her own before he can respond.

It’s a simple, loving kiss, and she pulls away far too soon. “Shall we wed in the fortnight?” She’s so…happy. His chest thumps in pride and endearment.

“Yes.” He pulls her back down, kisses her lips before drawing them to her forehead. “Yes, I would love that.” He murmurs, dragging her into the bed with him. A swelling love batters at his body when he holds her close.

Too afraid to let go. “I love you.” It feels as if his heart might stop, when he hears the simple yet world moving words.

“I love you, too.”

He’d have to thank Tormund for the drinks.


	6. Lyanna Mormont, the Queen of Sass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kathemy asked: Cool! Prompt: Lyanna Mormont confronts Sansa about the weird stares between her and her "half brother".

***

***

Lyanna stares at the both of them, Jon laughing as Sansa snickers into her hand. She doesn’t know what exactly it is he said, for he had leaned in like a milk maid to whisper it in her ear. But it had been enough to have Sansa look at him as if he were the only thing in the world. She see’s it everyday, so it isn’t exactly new.

Even so, she’s sure she’s the only one who see’s it. Even to two in front don’t recognize it. The loving glances, the longing touches and everything else in between. It makes Lyanna sick.

But she’d be lying if she didn’t find it admirable. For two people to find love in times such as these. Lyanna may have had her doubts about lady Sansa, especially after she’d come for house Mormonts help, but she was more than certain that the woman was strong .

When the council meeting is over and Jon exits, leaving Sansa to waver by herself is when Lyanna saunters over. It was time she force the two of them to face their feelings. It was getting quite annoying to watch.

Mormont men got to the point. It would seem the Tully in their lady and the Stark in their King got the better of them. For, if she remembers her mother correctly, this is exactly how lady Catelyn and lord Stark had acted around each other.

Though, knowing the two, she’d have to be careful in how she’d bring up the topic. Sansa startles when Lyanna seemingly comes from nowhere, arms folded as she gawks up at Sansa. The lady of Winterfell appears confused for a moment before she asks “What is it?”

“Why do you stare at him as such?” Sansa stills as Lyanna lifts a brow. Without an immediate answer the space is filled with nothing but static.

Sansa plays with her fingers. “I do not know what you mean, lady Mormont.”

“He is the King, you like knights, I wouldn't be surprised.” It wouldn’t make sense to any other, but Sansa frowns at the comment.

“And what exactly are you implying?” Sansa questions, folding her arms. Lyanna sighs.

“You love him.” Sometimes you just had to be blunt. Sansa stutters under her breath. “What? Are you just now realizing this too?” She freezes, looking to the wall in recognition.

“He is my brother.” Sansa defends.

“Half.” Lyanna adds. Sansa’s frown deepens, looking to the floor for a moment. Utterly confused and withdrawn. The lady must have thought it as a flying fancy. Not admiration and conditions of the heart. It was easy to the confuse the two.

Lyanna waits for her to speak, but is left with nothing as Sansa leaves the chamber without a word. Likely to speak with him, she hopes.

_Good._

She was sick of seeing them dance around each other like a couple of fishing wives.


	7. Loving When I Probably Shouldn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reportergirl13 asked: Hey there, I'm new to the Jonsa ship (totally obsessed) And I was hoping you could write something set after the finale. Something where Jon basically makes Sansa his Queen in the North, without them being married. They learn to trust each out. They share the Lords chamber. Jon protects Sansa as much as she protects him She's his council and they make decisions together and eventually fall in love. They find out about his parentage and eventually get married and just...All the things lol

***

***

Jon sits as Sansa pours herself a stem of wine, the long scent of spices and honey fill his nose- golden arbor. A taste she’s grown accustomed to ever since she’d arrived in Kings Landing. A taste, much to her displeasure, she cannot get rid of.

“Sansa.” He tests the name, watching as she pulls her eyes to meet his own. Beautiful. So beautiful. They remind him of the wall, for one odd reason or another. One having been the cold ice that settles there, or the protection and defense they bear when spoken to.

She tilts her head, fitting a small sip into her mouth before she asks “What?” He moves to sit next to her. He didn’t wish to be King, and even as he wears the title a fortnight, he cannot shake the feeling that he had stolen her birthright.

“I…” He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, the words slipping before he can propose his thoughts.

His dark brows knitting in confusion. “Jon, what is it?” She pushes, leaning into her seat and crossing her legs. He doesn’t know how to say it, not without coming across weak or tired, or simply guilty. Perhap’s that was the only way to go about it?

“You should be Queen.” He’s blunt, and her eyes round, if only a little at the declaration. “I should not have been name King. That is your right, not mine.” He lowers his head into his hands.

She’s silent, for a moment, before she decides to speak up. “Jon, you do deserve it. You fought for Winterfell just as much as I did.” She assures, leaning forth to rub his arm.

Or she had. For she flinches and settles back into her seat. “No.” He replies. “Winterfell belongs to you. The North belongs to you.”

“Jon.” She implores. Before she can supplicate he adds

“I am not a Stark. I am a Snow, I do not deserve the title-”

“Jon, do you think I would have allowed you to be King if it upset me?” He pines his head back, staring at her. “I do not care, of course it bothered me at first, but I respect the decision.”

Jon cannot help but ask “And why is that?”

“Because I know at least you will not hurt me.” Her voice is close to steel, but wavers near the end, the way one would before falling prey to memory and torment.

Jon thinks on it. It didn’t matter. She deserved the title. “You will be named Queen.” He declares, standing before she can deny and leaves the chamber. He was the King, if he wished her to be Queen, than it would happen.

 

* * *

 

Sansa smirks, watching as Jon struggles with his armor. They’d decided to share the chamber- well she had. Jon had been nerved by the idea. But she had let him know she liked the idea.

Rather than being alone with her thoughts and sleepless nights. He helped keep the darkness at bay. It had certainly help he sleep better, to have him close by, to hear him groan in his sleep- kick at the sheets and elevate a warmth towards her. It was truly a nightmare to sleep alone, after all that she has gone through. It felt as if the cold would saw her down until there was nothing left but her bones.

“Jon.” She murmurs, he spins to look at her, brows knitted as he attempts to buckles his belt. She’d never seen him struggle with such a simple task.

In fact, he should be used to it, after being at the wall for so long. Sansa saunters over, holding out her hands. “You obviously need help.” She holds back the giggle that licks at her lips, lowering herself to play with the leather.

She doesn’t look at him, but she can feel his stare. It digs into her spine, goose flesh rising as she realizes just how close her hands are to his-

Sansa pulls away quickly, hands snatched to the front of her gown, kept close to her legs. “That should help.” she breathes, stepping back, his dark grey hue following her every step.

“Thank you.” He stumbles, before swiping his mantle about his shoulders. “We have-”

“I know. A council meeting.” Ever since he’d named her Queen in the North, she’d been required to attend every single one. Not that she minded. It was nice to be involved- to be given the respect from all the houses and their lords. As demanded by the King. Even if they weren’t wed.

“Shall we go?” She asks, shifting the stale air in the room. He nods quickly, skimming past as for her to follow. She does.

 

* * *

 

The day after they decided to take the Riverland’s from her uncle was the day she’d become Queen of the Trident. Something she had not expected. Of course her uncles men had found him a traitor, even if they would not openly admit it.

Jon had come to her and asked if she’d be willing to do such a thing. Land and men, so they may take way for Kings Landing and take Cersei off her throne. A mad Queen she was, burning people alive who displeased her. She had even sent a payed killer to slay Sansa, that is until Jon had thrust his sword through the mans head. The woman had attempted to poison Jon. Sansa had been sure to keep an eye out for all things that went into his mouth.

She’d caught more than one assassination attempts. And now, here they stand, jaw slacked and surprised.

Jon was no Snow. No, he was a Targaryen, or that is what Bran claims, as does Howland Reed. The very man who saw father leave with Jon from the tower of Joy. Sansa only know’s that this meant two things. The North would claim him an impostor and attempt to steal his throne, as the North does.

And that what she felt for him wasn’t entirely wrong anymore. Her thoughts of holding him, kissing him and wedding him had not been something to fraught over. But something to rejoice in. For she would not allow the North to steal him away from her. The only person that matters. She’d name him King in the North by bonding his blood to her own.

 

* * *

 

The wedding night is simple, nothing too great, but is makes her happy. Jon is happy, too. She can see it. It wells her up with pride and joy to know. He whispers it as well, as they seat themselves for the feast, constantly leaning over to kiss her cheek and repeat it as much as possible.

He shows her his love in bed, kissing every scar and bruise left on her body. Careful, soft, loving as he endows his head between her legs and moves inside her. And she’s not afraid to show him as well, in her own way. Both in and out of bed. Though she finds her best expression of her love is found in her growing stomach, many moons after their bedding.

He was her greatest thing in life. And she his.

 


	8. Ill for your Attention (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cruyffsbeckenbauer asked: Ah thank you so much for the wonderful Baelish fic. Another request! Jon was sick so Sansa took care of him day and night. Now he is not sick anymore but he REALLY misses Sansa so he pretends to be sick. Go as smutty as you want please :)
> 
> Smut warning. Tub sex.

***

***

The day he grows ill is perhaps a blessing. Of course the fever and goose flesh were nothing other than unwelcoming. But with it came someone he adored.

_Sansa._

The moment she found him ill she was the epitome of worry. Concern. Fussing over him the moment he coughed, shivered, or said something out of the ordinary.

She’d pile furs atop furs, lie a cold cloth on his forehead and stare at him- as if she were willing him to get better. Days passed and she still lied on the bed, coughing and huffing, stirring wild and heavy. Sansa had abandoned her duties as lady of Winterfell just to care for him.

She’d hardly ever allow another touch him, out of simple and provocative possessiveness. All that except for Sam, whom she allowed to do what he wished. Her excuse had been she didn’t wish any to catch what he had. Nor did she want Northern lords believing their King to be weak. He had thought it true for the first day, until it became apparent this was a selfish need.

And when he is no longer sick, he is the selfish one. Feigning an illness that had left him two days ago. Simply because he wanted to feel her touch, to smell her and have her to himself alone.

Where no one would bother him with politics, kingship, marriage, or lands and titles. Where they should go and who has earned the right to such a thing. He didn’t enjoy being King, and he thinks how Robb must have felt with so much thrust upon him.

And here he lies now, letting loose a cough conjured by Sansa’s neglectful actions. Sitting near the hearth as she reads. Her eyes meet his and she frowns.

“The cough should have left with the fever.” She exclaims, standing while pleating her skirts down. Sauntering over she reaches for a small goblet, raising his head to meet the water dribbled inside.

Jon sighs, lying back down. Sansa parts loose hairs from his face, without it up it spread across his forehead in a mess. A dirty one at that. She gives a look in slant disgust, for that is how Sansa would react to a man who hasn’t bathed in four days.

“You need to bathe.” She mutters, eyes cold and chilling, the sweat far less frozen than her gawk. Had she found out?

Was she angry with him? For having taken time out of her many days? “I’ll fetch a handmaiden to ready that for you. You should at least be clean. No matter how sick.” Her voice is almost endearing, but it sounds fake.

He’s somewhat learned how to decipher her facial expressions, after much practice, but it still comes as a surprise to find what she is really feeling. To know her true thoughts. Sansa had become a master at hiding, blending and lying.

Kings Landing did that to the innocent and lovely. As did a certain mockingbird. But it’s what has kept her alive, so he could not possibly be angry with her. She leaves his side, and he’s left with his thoughts. Was it wrong of him to pretend? Ever since he was made King he never had any time alone with her. Surely this was something he was allowed to do? He was King, he might as well make use of the title at some point.

 

* * *

 

He sits in the tub, sinking lower until his chin reaches the steaming water. Sansa had been gone for hours. Not that he had expected her to be there during his washing. That was not appropriate. But a part of him had wished she stay a little while longer before he bathed.

He worried she may be speaking with Baelish, a man whom he held no respect for. Not after what he did. Selling Sansa off to the highest bidder, that being the Boltons. The torture she had endured was beyond what he could comprehend, and a part of him didn’t want to.

Jon feared he may never come back from it. Even so, it still slips into mind as he attempts to sleep. Tossing and turning into fleece that does nothing but keep him up. An itch there or here, upon his leg or arm. One excuse after the other. When the truth had been he didn’t want to close his eyes. Closing them meant darkness. And he’s seen enough in the afterlife to know he didn’t enjoy the shade any longer.

He felt dead when he slept. As if something primal had taken over and left the rest to rot. Sighing, he sits up, bringing a hand to wash at his bicep. Fingers trailing the slight scarring, the white stringing across along his veins. The marks had only appeared when he came back from the dead. Alive and chalk full of air, unable to comprehend the world around him- only darkness.

Darkness…

Sansa was the light. The moon, sun and the stars. She kept him bright and on his feet. Gave him something to fight for. Something to live for. To think it would be her to lift him was a surprise. Before they had left Winterfell Sansa saw him as a guest and nothing more. Influence of her lady mother. Now she held him close, as if he might dissipate into thin air if she didn’t.

Always on edge, clambering around him and asking for his schedule. A fear of being left alone. He understood better than anyone. And still, she shined brighter than any star, than any woman- than anything he’d seen in the world. Seeing her at Castle Black, dirt ridden and red rimmed eyes- she was a sight. She was home in that very instant. All that he had left and she him. At first he’d felt a brother, something he’d always wished to be to the Stark's.

But the moment he allowed his lips to press against her forehead upon overlooking the battlements, his stomach twisted in a way that unsettled him. And when he pulled away, he knew something was wrong when he looked to her lips.

Imagined his one on hers. To see if she did taste of honey and lemon cakes. And now he frightens himself with the attraction. He’d gone as far as to feigning sickness, just so she may be near. It was pathetic, really. His thoughts are knocked off course when the door to his chamber opens. Not before a knock, soft and uncertain. He doesn’t immediately glance over, it taking a moment to tear his eyes from the white lining.

However, he certainly is surprised to find Sansa herself. Standing in his chamber, eyes clad to the floor and a hand rubbing her arm shyly. She stands in her night dress, the thin fabric scattering what had been his imagination to the dirt.

Burying it with the rest of the ghosts that haunted them all. The lovely bones that had grown in their absence. It takes him a moment, but he seeps lower in mock shock. As to show modesty. Had she forgotten of his bath? Or simply thought he’d be done by now?

When she lifts her eyes to meet his, warm and made of the sea and stars. All things bright and luminescent fading in and out as she focuses on him and only him. She slowly saunters over, hand still rubbing at her arm as she approaches. Anything he’d say was caught in his throat, confusion lifting a brow as he watches.

Sansa pauses before the wooden tub, far enough to keep his nudity nothing but a tall tale. “Has anyone come to clean you?” The query is trembling, not with fear but something he cannot identify. A tone he’s never heard leave her lips.

Jon shakes his head. Unknowing of where this could possibly go. “No.” He answers carefully. Sansa stills, bones rigid, as if willing herself to move. And so she does, closing in until his body is clear for her to see.

Though she does not look down. Keeping her hue to his own. Slowly she leans down, taking a small cloth that had been left for him to use. All the same pulling a stool behind her so she may sit. Jon realizes what is happening by the time she dips her hand in the water.

Soaking said cloth before lathering it with soaps. Did she plan to bathe him? It was an outrageous thought. Sansa would never-

He shudders when the tips of her nails scrape against his chest as she smothers the rag to him. Lavender- a lady’s soap soaks into his skin. He sits rigid, unknowing of what to do or how to process it all. Sansa moves from his chest to his arms, thoroughly cleaning the muck left to stain him. Dried sweat cleaned with a few scrubs. When Sansa moves closer, her aroma of rose, iris and heliotrope clogging his senses.

And he cannot pull his stare from her face- not when she reaches his stomach and lightly patters the rag, delicate and careful. Gawking at the once open wounds his brother had shed upon him. She frowns, before continuing. As to shrug off her drumming thoughts of fury and melancholy.

When she speaks he nearly jumps. “You are not ill.” She declares, a product of certainty lacing her octaves. He does not say anything, seals his full lips in the hopes she may forget his perfidious response. That she not dwell on his dishonesty and forgive him.

She moves from sight at that point, leaving the stool; the excess air she leaves has him frozen. She didn’t like being lied to. He knew that all too well. Even if it was her game.

Jon is a shriveling mess when he feels her hands clasp to his shoulders, reining him close to the edge of the tub, lips next to his ear. “Why?” She speaks. “Why did you lie?” Her breath is hot, steaming- as if she were the dragon and not the fabled beasts themselves.

His answer is slow and unworthy. “I did not wish for you to leave.” His answer is the truth and he hopes he may accept it. He can almost feel her smiling, a glacius beam meant for him and only him.

Her hands stride from his shoulder down to his chest. Palming him and the most she could bring to her skin, to feel him. Her nose takes her hands place, lips pressing softly to his shoulder blade. He shivers, wanting to pull away yet he cannot. Tied to her the only way a man could be. Strapped to the woman behind him as she holds him.

He is a fool to allow this, for he is her half-brother, they shared a father, and yet he stills. Breathes her in as her hands move further down, stopping at his stomach in pure curiosity. She brings her lips back to his ear.

“Truly?”

_Yes._

“Of course…I did not wish for you to be left alone with Winterfell and her subjects.” He chokes out, closing his eyes, heavy his lids are. Bliss crowns his flesh and has him breathing in such a way, in such peace, he swore he’d never feel it again.

Not since the loss of Ygritte, of Robb and Rickon. Sansa pulls away, her feet padding at the stone floor until she comes to the other side of the tub. She is quick, sly, sinking into the water to sit across him.

He stares, gawks in disbelief. He can see everything underneath, the snowy fleece doing nothing but display what hid underneath. Jon does his best to keep his eyes from her, from her well endowed chest to her arced hips- her flesh made of pearl and diamond.

Everything he found about Sansa was irresistible, lovely and made of jewels and steel. He itched to touch her, to feel her against him, but that was not honorable. It was wrong to feel that way. It was absolutely reprehensible. He should leave. But he cannot without her seeing everything. From the scars that drifted from thigh to ankle, or what lied in between.

“Jon?” He doesn’t look to her, keeps his eyes down to focus on the water. “Jon, look at me.” She demands, even so her voice is soft, pleading almost. And so he does, bringing his sullen grey hue to meet her Tully blue. The chamber is intense, each breath that leaves another thunders, and he swears his heart is pounding louder than any drum or clap of thunder. He is tempted to inching his legs up, so he may not disgust her with his…

“Jon…What do you see?” He doesn’t understand, looking upon her he finds beauty. But he isn’t sure of what she is defining within the question.

He lifts a brow. If he said something wrong he would be dead. “What do you mean?”

“Do you see me?” Jon feels himself go inelastic, his joints clicking together with a snap, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “When you look at me, what do you see?” She almost sounds imortuen. Looking for some confirmation, something ease her.

Her eyes are doleful, large as causers, a begging excuse for him to talk. So he does. “I see a survivor.” He says unsteadily. He doesn’t add much, thinking on what should be prepared before anything leaves his mouth. He happens to say foolish things when he does not think his thoughts out first. Sansa tucks her knees up to her chest.

“You only see a survivor?” He feels guilty. Because that is not what she should be labeled, even if it had been correct. Sansa had made it clear she did not wish to be found a prisoner of circumstance. She’d broken out of her cage long ago.

“I…” He looks to his palms. Steeling himself. “I see a fighter. You fought for our home, you fought for your namesake, you fought for the North.” He concludes, looking to her once more. “I see steel.”

Her eyes brighten, illuminated by the golden atmosphere the candles gave. A gift from the Gods, he supposes, for she is all the more beautiful when she looks at him like this. With such hope. “What else?” She was searching.

Searching for something they both knew he would not admit. But he didn’t feel like himself. Not tonight. “You are beautiful, strong willed, abled and someone I look to.” He licks his lips, slowly she is leaning towards him.

Shoulders narrowed as the water lashes in rings, skimming the wooden planks. She give something kin to a nod, as for him to continue. “You are glorious-” It slips but he has no intentions on taking it back. Trying to smother it with words that did not matter nor account for how he felt.

Not when copper melts beneath steam, molten and loose and crowning her shoulders in all it’s glory.

“You are lovely.” He adds. “I look at you and I see home- I have since you came to Castle Black.” Her lips purse at the comment, devotion leaden between the surface of his lips. And there, in the corner of her lips is a simper, light and cautious. Her eyes glimmer, the water reflecting a tidal wave of emotion, somber as the moon. The stars sway as she does, they follow her and listen to her command.

“And I love you.” He mutters as she climbs atop him, fingers tracing the broken scars, white and black, red and made of plum- she traces them all with those gorgeous fingers of hers. She lets out a sweet breath, a small hand clambering to his cheek, palming the scruff in adoration. Straddling him close she leans next to his ear, breath hot as fire, wanton and loving.

“Love me.” She whispers, lips the petal of a rose against his flesh. “Love me, Jon Snow.” she urges, hands skimming his arms and chest.

He sighs, hefty and in a blur his lips have collided with her own. She gasps into his mouth, a broad opening as he slides his tongue in. He is gentle, the best he can be at this point. She draws the wolf out in him, the dragon, the stag- all and every wild incarnation of houses that express carnal desire.

His hands wind about her back, devouring her the best way he knows, tasting her and his own mouth fills with arbor gold and lemon cake. The very taste is just how he imagined she’d be. A Tully, a Stark, a voyager from Kings Landing, the Eyrie, the Riverlands and Winterfell.

She was her surroundings. A master in blending into the world so they may forget she existed. Jon pulls from her lips, aligning them to her neck with soft, plump kisses. Open mouthed but delicate. Her fingers wraps to his head, twirling about his dark curls with a shudder. “Please.” She hums into the air, fog drifting from her lips. “Please, love me.” She begs.

Jon slides his fingers up her thigh, careful and slow, for he did not want to make her uncomfortable. No matter how she pleaded. A soft moan escapes her when he reaches the patch between her legs- barren.

He had expected underclothes. She had planned this. He doesn’t know whether he should be upset or beatific. If she had planned this, she wanted a certain reaction and she had received it. For personal gain or another she waited for him to do this.

Jon doesn’t know to be wary or not, that is until she struggles to sit upright, her head falling between his neck and shoulder. He barely hears it, the words strangled. “I love you.” It’ so soft, good, just like her. “Love me.” She repeats impatiently.

His fingers breach her security, lofting through the patch of curls before he reaches her center. Rolling at the bud he know’s well, but not enough to be certain, giving it a testing grind. She sighs, leering her head near the back of his neck. He strains at the sound, his cock surely prodding at her thighs.

And Sansa is soft as silk, and through the thick of the water he could feel her grow slick. It’s then he rides one finger up, allowing the other to follow as she stretches- and she’s perfect. He moves them slowly, to compensate for what he wished he could do.

“Jon.” She inaudible gasps, eyes shut tightly and nails biting. “I want you inside me, not your fingers, you.” He doesn’t expect her to be blunt, nor to wish for him in that way.

“Are you certain?” He murmurs into her moist flesh. She pulls back, eyes defiant and lips curled, cheeks rosey as he’d ever seen them.

“Yes.” She pulls him closer. “I want you Jon, I love you and I want you.”

“Sansa-”

“My purity was taken a long time ago.” She utters. “You will not spoil, you will heal it.” It was enough to slide his fingers out and move her to where he needed her. She does steer her gaze away, their eyes boring into one another as the tip of his cock drags her open, his hands on her hips as to help lead himself in. He gapes at her, breaching her completely, filling her to the brim.

She is tight, warm, made for him- he was made more her. He waits a moment for her to adjust to him; he is taken by surprise when she moves on her own. Sansa makes the smallest of sounds as she grinds her hips into him. He doubts she could hear them herself, but she is close, near to him and he can hear it all. Mewling, the softest of moan and the catch of her breath.

His heart in turn hammers, escalates with every shift of her hips, the tightness squeezing as she hums out in pleasant ardor. Her slickness growing with each hitch and purr- he throbs to hold her close, his hands lining her fleece held body.

He wishes to take it off, but a part of him found satisfaction in seeing her this way, covered yet vulnerable. Opening up to him in a way she had refused, that he had ignored.

One hand coming to curl around the back of her neck, feeling for those strands of fire- the scorch burns and yet it doesn’t. It keeps him alive. Her tempo has increased, a knot in his stomach twists until he feels as if he might snap, her nails dragging down his arms as she hikes herself up.

Speeding up to the point of no return- he would peak before her, he could feel it. It wasn’t what he wanted. In a panic he draws his fingers back down between her thighs, in a disarray and tangles he finds his way to her nub once more.

Digging his thumb into her, slowly increasing the weight he forced upon her as she moved. This time it is audible. She moans out, calling his name in desperation. Her mouth slants open, the way a flower blooms. And with an increasing tempo pleasure climbs his spine, the way it hopefully does hers.

Sansa’s hips stop for a moment, he worries; that is until she releases the moment he grunts, his thumb still rolling as her toes curl. Her head falls to his shoulder, lips tightly wound against him as he feels her beam. They sit in comfortable silence, his fingers drawing unrecognizable shapes, lacing up her spine without having her twitch in response. Sansa sighs, hands coloring his body red. She was red.

“I love you, Jon Snow.” He smiles up at the ceiling.

“And I love you, Sansa Stark.” She pulls back, her gleam putting shame to the sun, for it could not nor would it ever compare to her happiness, to her smile.

She gives him a loving kiss, lips twisting as they had before. When she pulls back, he whines at the loss, not before adding “I should act ill more often.” Sansa’s brows knit.

Flicking his nose she shakes her head. “It takes time to take care of you- have you seen the pile of-” He interrupts with a kiss. He didn’t wish to hear of his title, of him being King. All he wants is to hold her, smell her, kiss and be with her.

When he pulls back, looking into those deep pools of blue, he can see the endearment and fuss welling.

“I see you, as well.” She says in a sudden breath, as if it were needed, keeping her hue on his own. “I see bravery, kindness, I see the knight I needed.” She leans forward, bowing her forehead to his. “I see the man father was supposed to wed to me.” He smirks, for he cannot help it. “You are a song to me, dear.”

 _“No.”_ He breaks, pushing forth, noses bouncing and lips touching. _“You are the song, you are my melody”_ A blush creeps to her cheeks, love curling about her features, as it does his. _“You are the hymn that keeps me breathing.”_


	9. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cruyffsbeckenbauer asked: I am like sending 1001 prompts. Please feel free to ignore them all. Lords and heirs from other noble houses arrive seeking Sansa's hand in marriage. But they have to go through Jon first. Jon has created these impossible tests they must pass to court Sansa.

***

***

Jon sighs, leaning into his palm as lord Glover bows. A small frown on his lips as he gawks up at them. “Your grace, I have come to ask for you sister’s hand in marriage.” Jon lifts a brow.

_What?_

Did the man have the sheer audacity to even suggest such a thing? Apparently so, for here he is now on one knee, kneeling for approval as Sansa scolds the old man. Wasn’t he the one who had confronted Sansa and declared house Stark dead?

The idiocy of the man. He can see her anger clearly, the purse of her lips as she tilts her head.

“No.” He answers before he can add any substance to his lame offer. Lord Glover looks up, brows raised.

He licks his cracked lips. “Do you not need an alliance?” Jon feels the need to roll his eyes, for even he understood the stupidity of his question.

“Are you declaring yourself separate from the North? Your King?” Sansa interjects, lifting a brow all the more. Emphasized all the more in her degrading distaste. The man seems to stutter under his breath.

“You may leave, do not ask again.” Jon adds, and he doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

After lord Glover, it would seem it has become something kin to a game, or a jest to ask for Sansa’s hand. Though the men seemed serious, almost obsessed. Secretly, Jon couldn’t help to blame them, at all. Sansa was the winter rose of Winterfell, whose thorns were sharp- more so than a wolf’s claws or jagged canines. She had proved that much with her attachment towards Ghost, and Ramsay’s hounds.

Whom she has taken to bonding with. Especially the largest, male, who she claims took Ramsay’s face before the rest. It should have scared him, worried perhaps, but he didn’t mind in the slightest. The horde of beasts loved her the way Lady would have. She feeds them three times a day and goes into the pens to...snuggle with them, as she has said. He, of course, sends several of his guard to watch after her.

It’s not that he didn’t trust the hounds...But he didn’t trust the hounds.

Now, before them, stands lord Asher Forrester, Jon had respect for him. Immense respect. Keeping their faith towards house Stark during the worst of times. Losing half their family and nearly losing their keep. And even Sansa seemed to found him flattering. With his great smile and the wink of his eye- he claimed such a tie to house Stark would ultimately keep his sister safe, and his little brother.

Jon admired that. But he needn’t offer marriage to have such an exchange. Jon tells him this. His response? “I did not intend to ask, until I saw her.” He gives her a gaze, that could be considering tribal, but she almost seems to blush. He cannot tell if she is playing her little game or truly finds him charming.

Deep down, a twinge of jealousy curls inside, one he’d rather pay no attention to. “I do not think it is an option.” Jon replies, voice deep.

Lord Forrester nods. “With all due respect, your grace, but may I ask for her permission, if it would sway you?” He stumbles on his words, obviously having been away from Westeros far too long. He’s heard of him and Essos. But he never mentions it. Jon, hesitantly, nods. He looks to her, a small smirk gracing her lips. She shrugs.

“I’ve heard of your loyalty, I do not think I would mind.” When she smiles at Jon, a part of him feels as if she’s doing this on purpose. As if she is expecting something.

The amusement on her face shows when he says “If you wish for her hand, you must fight for it.” The man lifts a brow.

“Pardon, your grace?” He seems confused.

Jon stands. “You must fight your King for her hand.” Jon saunters over, glaring over at the man, who could have been the embodiment of Sansa’s knight as a young summer child. Golden hair, a chiseled smile, and striking blue eyes. A man who had nearly saved his own house by his lonesome.

He could be someone you heard in songs or tales. Sansa didn’t still like that sort of thing, did she?

Lord Forrester, a small contemplative smile gracing his lips, bows. “I would never dare fight my King.” He replies. “I am sorry, my lady, but I would be a fool to spar with the greatest swordsman in Westeros.”

Sansa nods, her lips blooming like a rose as she tilts her head. “It is of no issue, my lord.” She says in understanding. “Perhaps you will still take our protection and men without my hand?”

He smiles. “If his grace allows it?”

Jon, with a short grunt, nods. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

The next is from the Eyrie, lord Harold Hardyng, a young man in waiting to take Robert Aryns place as Lord of the Eyrie.

He was gentle, had even gone as far as courting her without his knowledge, and it wouldn’t have bothered him if it weren’t for the anger swelling in his chest and the fear of losing her. He knew she could take care of herself, and if she allowed him to flirt or even speak with her, than it was none of his business.

Until it was.

He’s speaking with Davos when the man comes to him, bows, and immediately asks for Sansa’s hand in marriage. Declares his love for her and wishes to wed her straightaway. Jon, despite himself, frowns. Nearly glares. He doesn’t like him, not anymore, he thought it would have been something of a flattery that Sansa enjoyed. But for the man to suggest? Have none of them learned?

“No.” Harold frowns at the response.

Almost looks as if he’s been stabbed at the response. “Is there no way to coerce you, your grace?” Jon is quick to find the cool gaze of the woman they speak of as of present.

Watching, as girls around her huddle in giggles and squeals. Her lady’s, handmaidens, but not her friends. Though they kept her company when Brienne or he could not- strangely enough, she had taken to spending time with Davos now, and Tormend.

She got along with them well enough and was seemingly beginning to trust them. That was good. But this, this was not.

Jon looks to his hands, Davos holding the smile itching to spring free. “If you can travel to the Wall and back to Winterfell in no less than a day, certainly, otherwise no.” His hope shatters at his words.

He sulks for the next week as he stays here, Sansa does nothing to cheer him up.

 

* * *

 

Sansa surprises him, for she sits in his chamber, at the edge of his bed and is the first thing he see's. A long day of council has left him exhausted, making an attempt to find a way to take the throne from Cersei and keep the dead at bay. Every answer involved his supposed aunt, Daenerys Targaryen. She had many more name but he had no intention in naming them off in mind.

He startles, staggering backwards at the sight. It is late, hardly appropriate for her to be in his chambers, let alone in her nightgown. Which does nothing to hide her frame. For it is thin, nearly giving nothing to the imagination. He steers his attention away from her immediately.

“You are not my brother.” The words almost sound accusatory. “Did you know before, when you had every man grasping for his pride?” He keeps his face towards the fire now, back turned to her.

“What?” He questions.

“Jon, don’t be dumb, you were jealous.” The sound of fabric skidding has his bones jumping, and he feels her come behind him. “Every man who has asked has been given an impossible quest for my hand.”

“I did it for your safety.” He replies solemnly, much to his surprise. Sansa shakes her head and he can feel it.

Her hand trails his shoulder. “You did it because you do not enjoy sharing.” Sansa is on the brink of a whisper. “And that is why I ask, did you know of your heritage when you did those things?” Jon swallows thickly.

“No.” He can feel the falsehood in his tone, even if the sound had been fake in itself. He didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but how could he not, a brother lusting after his sister? It was horrid.

Sansa snickers, as if she didn’t believe him and it has him turning to face her. “I promise, Sansa, I would never keep that from you.”

“I know.” He realizes just how close they truly are. “I suppose you do have Targaryen blood.” Her hand palms his scuffed cheek, adoration taking a storm within her iris. “Lusting after your own sister- that is what a dragon does, not a wolf.”

Jon holds back the grimace, looking to the ground. “I apologize.” He doesn’t feign surprise, for he wasn’t, Sansa knew everything. For her to find his attraction to her wasn’t impossible. It was difficult to hide, especially when so many have asked for her to be made their wife.

Just the thought of her bearing children for anyone but himself- That was...That was not for him to think of. She did not belong to him, to no one but Winterfell. She’s gone through enough. For him to even think of that was horrid of him.

_Terrible._

He stills when she lifts his head, her lips taking hold of his own with a force he thought imaginable. Her fingers laced to crown within his curls of sable, a soft moan escaping as she pulls away. “Odd, for you do not look a dragon.” She tilts her head, hand coming down to stroke his cheek.

“Sansa.” He tries, but she silences him with a kiss. Desperate almost. When she pulls away her eyes glimmer, as if the fire behind them had done nothing to alight the frozen grasp within her hue.

She brings herself up, hot breath sliding against his ear. “You are brave, kind, and gentle.” She murmurs. “You are a _knight_ of the watch, a man of honor, and everything I believed in as a child.” His heart is louder than drums and he fears he may hear it.

Her left hand skids to his chest, pressing hard as to feel his heart. “And so much more.” She pulls away, smiling in a way she had done so many times before. A soft gaze of love molding around her.

“I love you.” Jon blurts, before he can hold back the words. He doesn’t know what to do afterwards.

So she offers before he can spiral in an uneasiness that keeps him talking for hours. He has never been good with women. “Then love me, show me in all the ways you can.” Jon nods.

“Marry me.”

“No.” He stands still, static settling between bones and eyes glazing. She sounded so serious it had scared him. “I’m jesting, of course.” she hurriedly adds after watching his reaction.

She kisses him once more, a comforting notion. And he hopes to spend the rest of his life offering the same.


	10. Foundation's Broken I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thickskinandelasticheart asked: Prompt: Sansa meets Jon at Castle Black and the reunion is beautiful. However, Tormund isn't the only ginger present by Jon's side, Ygritte is alive and as time passes and feelings develop, there's angst, tension and heartbreak involved with all 3. (could be endgame jon/ygritte or jon/sansa, preferably jonsa! : )

***

***

Ygritte leans against the wall, crossing her arms with the purse of her lips. Ed attempting to keep Jon at the Wall. She doesn’t understand why he makes the effort in the first place. If the free folk had killed her and she had been brought back, she’d have left far earlier than Jon has on his own.

Even so, she is just relieved that the red lady has brought him back to her. She thought her world torrid, a night terror ready to eat her alive once she had found him in the snow. Traitor written above his limp body. She smirks when Jon says no, once more, eyes narrowed at Ed. “Then where do you plan to go?” Ed questions, voice subtle in it’s disparity.

Jon shrugs, looking to Ygritte for a short moment before he says “Some place warm, I suppose.” Ygritte beams bright at the thought. Warm? She would enjoy that. Much better than the cold she’s grown in.

Further away from the dead, too. She liked the idea more than she enjoyed throwing snow and Snow. Ed snickers at his response. Though everything is turned silent when the gates are opened. The sound grating at her ears. She’s never liked the gate- reminds her of all that’s happened. However, she is curious.

Who could possibly be here now? All the free folk have joined Jon, what was left of the Nights Watch had stood still, they haven’t left the wall, not yet. And no one has gone out for recruits. Both Jon and Ed seem just as in query as she. Jon gazes at her, as if signaling to follow and he exits the door behind Ed.

But he stops, a hard shield made of flesh bouncing her back. Everything about him tightens, and as he slowly moves forward she can depict the honest to gods fear in those sullen grey eyes. His frown deepening and the hope that seemingly lifts into the world around them all.

Ygritte looks down upon the ramparts, finding a woman, hair kissed by fire- just like her own. When she turns, she looks as if she’s just gone through hell and back. Dirt and sweat, blood even, it’s all painted across her face. Her lips are blue and her eyes rimmed red. And in between the two is a likeness, as if they’ve seen one another before.

Jon starts down the stairs, breath quickening, and when he reaches the end he halts. The girl, the tall thing, her lips quiver and there’s souse beginning to lick at her cheeks. She smiles, it’s sad and bitter, but it’s there and the both of them leap at each other.

Holding one another as he lifts her off of the ground, squeezing until she can see the leather of his tunic tight due to the stress he’s giving it. And the lady, for she wears a gown as one does, nuzzles her face into the back of his shoulder.

A sniff of relief fleeting her lips and Jon looks as if he might cry. Fingers digging into her back the way her own do. A need to never let go-

Ygritte frowns. Who was she? What made Jon hold her the way he is? He obviously knew her. Ygritte looks beyond them, finding a large woman dressed in armor. Hair as bright as the sun, and a small man residing beside her. A small squeamish smile about him as he looks on. When she returns her attention to Jon, he still hasn’t let her go.

 

* * *

 

Her name is Sansa Stark. And she wants her home back. Winterfell. Jon gives a grunt as he sits down at the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes in exasperation. Ygritte watches, tilting her head in concern. The quiet masking what could have been incoherent curses.

“You don’t have to, you know.” She speaks, before the silence can grow anymore deafening. He looks up at her, hands clasped with a white strain. Ygritte moves from the wall, slowly making her way towards Jon.

He shrugs. “I do.” He replies, grey eyes sullen as ever. Ygritte holds back the temptation to roll her eyes.

Marching forward she settles before him, taking his hands in her own. Fitting perfectly, as they always do, his crowding over her own. “You don’t owe her anything. You just came back from the dead.”

Her reasoning doesn’t seem to reach him, for the grey dulls and he sighs. “I’ve fought so much…” Jon sounds as if he might break down. And she doesn’t blame him. He’s been through too much- his own brothers killing him for helping her people.

“I know.” She lifts a hand, palm cradling the apple of his cheek. “Let’s leave, let’s go further down south. She said she could do this herself, didn’t she?” Jon shakes his head.

“I’ve already promised I would help.” He looks to her, a soft determination creasing. She frowns. “I can’t let what happened to her happen again. Ramsay needs to be put down.”

Ygritte shows her disapproval through a deep scowl. “You’ve fought enough. You’ve died, you came back, it’s time you finally rest.” Ygritte pushes on before he can respond. “Your honor will kill you again if you help this...This girl.”

That seems to offend him, pulling his hands away from her he turns her gaze away. “She’s not just some girl, Ygritte, she’s my sister.” He sounds angry. Infuriated. “I know what I’ve been through, but I only know what she’s told me about herself- have seen the bruises? The scars?” He sounds incredulous.

_Broken. Torn. Afraid._

Ygritte stands, groaning. “Then stop complaining. You know what you are doing, so do it.”

“That’s the issue.” He stands with her. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Ygritte doesn’t want to admit it, but her breaks her heart to hear him in such a state; almost worse than when she found him blue in the lips and paler than snow.

Red the only true color about him. “We’ll figure it out.” Ygritte pulls him into a hug.

 

* * *

 

The war terrifies her. More than the Wall had, with the night’s watch. Ygritte feels trapped, her heart quaking as the shields crown the battlefield in victory- she can only see what’s in front of her. Tormend, and some man caving his nose in.

She thinks it’s an Umber, Jon said the Umber’s were helping the Bolton’s. Damn houses and their supposed loyalty. She doesn’t know when, but there’s water crowding her eyes before she can understand what is happening. A long hiss exits her mouth, a shab of a blade skidding along her back in one long stroke.

They were going to _die_.

She was going to _die._

Jon was going to _die._

Ygritte thinks they should have listened the lady in skirts. Wait for more men. But she also acknowledged the time they had and it was not enough. She’s thrust against the wall of bodies, blood caking her leather and furs, and she groans in pain. A groping sting clinging to her back at the rough bareness of it all.

This was the end. Ygritte didn’t know if she was ready to go. Not without seeing Jon one last time. Gasping for breath she closes her eyes. Attempting to keep his face in mind as the pain twinges further up, until it pierces her chest. If she were not to survive, Jon should. He’s been through enough, and she hopes whatever source of power hears her, she hopes that they take her life rather than his own.

And there it is, a song, a lure from the supposed Gods. It’s breath taking, the long horn that sings from the hills. Ygritte chances a glance, looking to the side- eyes widening. An army. A bulk of men, horses, thousands of them. They look angry. Terrifyingly so. And there beside this large application of men is the lady herself. In her wolfy skirts and all.

She looks the angriest, but the most satisfied. A small quirk lifting her lips as the men rip through the others with little to no cause, trampling them with ease. Ygritte feels as if she can breathe, still keeping her eyes on the young woman.

Her eyes darken, the smirk is replaced with a glare so dark, so deep, she fears it might kill her. And some deep part of her know’s the girl, whose hair has been kissed by fire just as her own, has met eyes with the bastard who killed her brother.

Who hurt her.

And she smiles again. Devious, daring, a smirk Ygritte herself has never seen. And it shakes her, has her lungs filling with fire-

It takes her a moment to realize it, but Ygritte...She is in fear of that smile.

 

* * *

 

Jon has become King. Ygritte doesn’t know how to feel about it. She’s never thought him to be Kingly. The man was a bastard, he held no lands or titles. Just her heart and his sword. With little ease she settles in his new chambers, shuffling his covers over her legs in curiosity. Jon claimed this wasn’t a castle. Ygritte found that hard to believe. It was huge, with halls that spanned so far and wide she thought she might get lost.

With a small sigh she looks to her right. He left her here alone, said he’d be back soon. She didn’t have Ghost either, though he left quite early. Long before she found the ‘King’s’ chambers. Ygritte thinks she might not listen and explore some more.

But she is interrupted with her thoughts when a soft knock collides with the door. There is no call for entrance and the lady walks right in, Ghost by her side. She freezes, if only for a moment, a small smile perking up on her lips. “Lady Ygritte-”

“I am no lady.” She corrects. Sansa nods. Uncomfortably, she might add. With a small cough she folds her arms.

“You wouldn’t know where Jon has gone to, would you?” Her voice is soft, pretty, Ygritte doesn’t like it. But there’s a strength to it. Ygritte has some respect for her. After leading so many men into battle and feeding the man- bastard to his own hounds.

She laughed when Jon told her about it. “Why?” Ygritte asks.

“I need to speak with him.” Sansa replies, her tone clipped. Ygritte senses the tension. It wasn’t all bad, but it was a warning. One the lady had grown to give away easily. She was tightly sealed off to others, Ygritte has found that out after much time with her.

She doesn’t trust anyone but Jon and that large woman that follows her about- the one Tormen is utterly mesmerized by. And the little squeamish man, who stutters and hiccups. Ygritte doesn’t bother to ask much more, knowing full well it would only infuriate the lady.

And since the battle of the bastards, Ygritte had no intention in trying. “I don’t know, he didn’t tell me.” Sansa nods.

“Thank you.” Before she leaves, she adds a few logs to the grate. “Keep that full, it may be warm now but it will freeze later on.” Ygritte truly wishes to roll her eyes.

“I know.” Tilting her head she sighs. “I grew beyond the wall, the cold is far worse than it is here.” Sansa lifts a brow.

“Winter is here.” Her words are chilling. “Keep it lit.” With that she leaves, Ghost trotting behind in a defensive curve.

It doesn’t bother her. But a small nagging part of her says to notice it. To look at Ghost and know Jon feels the same. Protective. It’s natural.

_But Ghost is close, very close._

 

* * *

 

Ygritte frowns, watching Jon as he flops onto the bed, a long groan escaping him. She fears lying beside him, fears he might move away.

He has ever since they found he was a Targaryen. Repeatedly, she told herself it was because he needed his space. It was a lot to take in. Knowing that your father isn’t your father. And she didn’t think it easy to have Northerner’s, the same who crowned him call him an intruder.

She watches. Before asking “What is wrong?” Jon scuffs his head to the side, grey clashing with blue, and he sighs.

“Another fight, that is all.” She lifts a brow. With the lords or Sansa? It would seem he has been arguing with her a lot too. Having only seen one argument, she knew it was bad. While Ygritte had no affection directed towards the ‘lady’, she knew Jon did.

 _Great affection;_ Ygritte thinks. Nearly chiding herself she blinks harshly. Of course he cared for her, she was his sister- now cousin. Something curls in her stomach.

“Do you want to…” The suggestive ending has him lifting a brow. As if he didn’t understand. She couldn’t tell if he was jesting or not. “Do you want to fuck, Jon?” She adds. Impatiently so. They haven’t shared a bed in nearly two moons. It was growing hard, and she wanted to feel him inside her again, or to have him do that thing with his mouth. He always said he was tired or busy. Leaving her cold and empty.

A small part of her, the tiny bit she ignores screams. Knowing full well he was not any of those things. She’s caught him pleasuring himself beside the hearth, alone, not tired, not busy. Soft grunts but no names. Not once had she heard her name.

But he hadn’t mentioned anyone’s name. That is the part she listens to. The part that says nothing is wrong. Before he can respond she saunters over, flipping him so she may straddle his torso. She leans in to kiss him, reaching his lips without hesitance. He doesn’t respond. His lips do not move. Not until she pushes harder; But it is lazy.

Uncaring almost.

She pulls back, scowling. “Tired or busy?” She clips, aggravated. Knowing he hadn’t enjoyed the attention.

His grey eyes frown with his lips, guilt climbing him the way snow has the trees. “Tired.” It’s a soft voice, exhausted, and for once. She might actually believe him.

But that small part screams again and she huffs, sliding off in annoyance. Through gritted teeth she says “You don’t love me.” It’s a statement, not a question.

Jon looks to her, the frown still there, still strong. “I do love you.” It’s weak and it doesn’t measure to what she wants. But she does not complain, she holds her breath and closes her eyes. She takes what she can and holds on desperately.

“Good.” She answers. “Because King or no, you betray me and I’ll cut off your cock.” He smiles, it’s weak, but it’s there. Good.

Crawling up his bed she lies down. He doesn’t responds and she decides to give more of a push. “You love me, so show me.”

He’s hesitant, but he follows up and lies atop her, lips skimming her neck. Hands sliding down her trousers and fumbling between her legs. Her hands pulls at what little is left of his hair, not knowing if she should pull out what was pulled up.

He kisses her, holds her, but there is a hole in her chest and it needs to be satisfied. “Say it.” she pulls away, gasping for breath. “Say you love me.”

“I love you.” He replies without his newfound reluctance. Biting her lip she nods, taking his lips into her own. He loves her.

He loves her.

He didn’t love another, whose hair was kissed by fire just as her own.

 

* * *

 

“What?” Is the first thing that spills from her lips. Not a moon later, not a moon after sharing her bed and he claims he and Sansa are getting married?

“I have to.” He declares. “It’s the only way-”

“To what?” She questions. “Fuck your sister?” He glares, something dark and dangerous.

“To keep her safe.” He adamantly replies, folding his arms as to show his disapproval. Ygritte lolls her head away from him, the chamber now unbearably cold.

_He didn’t deny it. He didn’t deny wanting to have her in his bed, not truly._

Ygritte feels about ready to keep that promise she’s made, if he were to ever betray her. The fear of him leaving though, it keeps her still. “From what?” She questions. “Her shadow? Herself? I’ve seen her, she know’s how to protect herself. She has a fucking army.”

“An army can’t defend her from marriage alliance.” He argues. Ygritte doesn’t get it. Don’t lady’s like her enjoy that sort of thing? Being courted?

Ygritte still doesn’t see the problem. “Is that not good?” Jon sighs.

“When it is men who wish to abuse and take what is her’s through that sort of bond, then no, it is not.” Ygritte rolls her eyes. Looking away from him she stands. 

Coming towards him she stops short of a foot. “Like you?” That hurt. She can tell. It doesn’t stop her. “I know how you feel. You’d fuck her, you want to fuck her, but honor says you shouldn’t.”

“I want to protect her!” He growls out. “Ygritte, this has nothing to do with how I feel, it has to do with her life.” He sounds exasperated- and she feels herself fall from the world. How he feels?. “I’m wedding her, whether you like it or not, I am left with no choice.”

Something inside her ignites, something hot, something powerful. “You had a choice!” She nearly screams. “And you chose her the day she came to the Wall.” Ygritte is on the brink of pushing him. “You chose her, even when I stood there, right next to you!”

He recoils at the sound, her voice breaking near the end. “Ygritte, don’t.” he says softly. “I love-”

“No.” She backs away from him, his hand about ready to palm her cheek. “Say it.” That scar leaden on her back, the same scar she earned fighting for him, it aches profusely. Just as her heart does. “Say you do not love her.” Was she supposed to feel this much pain? He was just a man. A simple man who’d been named Crow. A King. He does not matter. She matters.

And yet her heart drops when he does not respond, unable to spurt the words she wishes to hear. Until he can breathe, he says something else entirely. Avoiding the question.

“Ygritte.” She searches his eyes, only finding the guilt again. Fuck. Of course. Shit on his honor. This was not honor. This was not truth. This was pain, misery, it was him lying to her. Her lips quiver, only for a moment, before she straightens her shoulders.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.” He grimaces, but does nothing when she leaves his chambers.

 

* * *

 

She’s eight cups deep into her wine when Jon and Sansa are hauled off to the chamber to ‘consummate’ their marriage. She doesn’t care how drunk she is, she saw it, the way he looked at her. With such adoration, care, love- a way he used to look at her, too. He’s said he loves her, has held her close and kissed her until he couldn’t breathe. Has said he would die for her, has saved her life, has made her feel loved.

But it falls in comparison for what he has done for the Queen in the North. The Red Wolf. The lady of Winterfell. No, it pales and draws her the fool. He’s fought a war for her. He’s killed for her. He’s held her, scolded her, cared for her, worries constantly and claims she is the rightful ruler many a time a day.

Jon had looked at her the way he looks at the moon, he had enjoyed the sight of Ygritte, of her smile, her body, her hair- everything. But now he has seen the sun, the stars, and they all glow brighter than the moon ever will. She hiccups, shuffling away the mug in bitter aggravation.

The sad part is she still wants him. Even as she acknowledges he loves another, even as she knows he will lie with her tonight the way he had her, he will call her his Queen and she will give him children. And a piece of her dreads that bit. She hadn’t realized it, for she thought it would happen eventually, she wanted to give him children. Have little wildling wander about with dark and red hair.

It aches even worse to know Sansa can give the same. Little wolves and dragons that have fire for hair, or the night for strands. Perhaps she’d even give him a child with silver hair. Biting at her lip she laughs. It’s despondent, weak, tired- she’s tired. _Done_.

It bothers her. Why hasn’t she left?

_Because you have nowhere to go._

The thought has her giggling again, holding her stomach until the bitter realization hits her with the force of winter’s winds. Without thought she stands.

A small part of herself draws short, claiming Jon would never lie with Sansa, he would never do that to her. It so, very small. But she still listens to it. As if it were a gospel she must learn by memory. Ygritte she leaves the horde of drunken men and leads herself to the hall, wobbles down the lengths of her doubt and glum.

When she arrives at his door she listens, and she hears it, a moan. A long, gasping moan that has Ygritte holding her breath and falling to the ground. Her heart feeling as if it might implode, bleed out until she was nothing but skin and bone on the ground.

 _He has to. He has to do it, or she won’t be safe. And Jon wants her safe. He would never intentionally hurt her. Never._  It’s reasonable, so very reasonable. It’s hard to question it. She convinces herself it is hard to question it. To give concern. Jon was an honorable man who thought of everyone before himself.

Even after he died and woke up he fought, he helped Sansa- Even if he hadn’t helped her. Ygritte doesn’t pay the hot souse dripping down her cheeks, a scorch inflaming the rest of her as she holds herself. Whimpers leave though, they exit breathlessly when she hears Sansa moan his name. Just the way she had herself.

He’s pleasing her.

Ygritte stands, holding her stomach as if all contents she’s had would fall out. And for the first time she believes she is the fool, the fool who know’s nothing.

_Nothing._


	11. Queen of Love and Beauty I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gabbygumsss asked: Rhaegar lives prompt where Jon is a Targaryen and crowns Sansa queen of love and beauty at a tourney after defeating Sansa's betrothed, Joffrey Baratheon

***

***

Sansa has always dreamed of attending a tourney, she’s heard so many stories and songs about them. Especially the knights. It’s the only good thing she can think about when she arrives in Kings Landing. After having been betrothed to Joffrey, it’s been getting harder and harder to believe in those stories.

She could always explain to her father what is happening, but he went through trouble to get her this marriage, and she had begged. Sansa had been three and ten at the time- she was far from smart. But she had insisted and father had given in. Luckily the wife of Robert, Cersei, was kind to her- Of course that is only because she caught her and Jaime together, and promised to keep it to herself if Cersei gave her kindness in return. It was fake but worth it.

She even thought that maybe, Cersei was growing on her as Sansa was on her. Asking to drink with her on the laziest of days, beside the hearth as she complains of Robert. Knowing full well Sansa would keep it to herself. Sansa didn’t know if she had any other friends before she came, but it was safe to assume that she did not.

Sansa could not speak of Joffrey to her, but complaining of other daily trials was enough. Perhaps they found a friend in each other they didn’t realize they had- as strange as it sounds. And unbelievable.

Her children, the other two, she enjoys. The both of them lovely and endearing, sweet little things, truly. The only other prospect she finds exciting about Kings Landing, other than the tournament, is she will see her family once more. It has been so long. And she desires it above all else.

Joffrey wouldn’t allow her to visit her family in Winterfell, and the last time she saw them was three years ago, at Storm’s End. She smiles to herself at the thought, of seeing her beloved father and mother, and seeing Robb- she’s missed him dearly. And surprisingly, she wished to see Arya more than anything.

Bran would be a sight, but he would not be attending. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Father had offered to stay behind but Bran insisted he go see Sansa, as said in the letter she had received from her little brother. But Rickon would be coming as well. It all left her welling in expressive joy, humming as she plays with the flowers in the vase before her. She and Joffrey had been sharing a chamber, despite what she thought as well as the court.

The King had offered her a chamber in the Maidenvault, but she had declined. Claiming she loved her Joffrey, despite what the court might whisper now; in truth, she despised him. But she had been too afraid to speak up.

King Rhaegar was a kind man, as was his Queen, Elia of Dorne. Sansa remembers her father telling her the story of Robert’s rebellion (In which Rhaegar valiantly forgave, given the circumstance, though they had all been punished, obviously), and how he had helped because he had thought Rhaegar had kidnapped Lyanna, her aunt.

In the change of events, Lyanna had ran away from him, and gave birth to a boy. Prince Jon, she remembers, and she’s only met him twice. As well as the rest of the royal family, prince Aegon and princess Rhaenys. Sansa thought it odd for a Targaryen to have such a non-Targaryen name. However, she was not one to judge. Contently, she moves the vase outdoors, setting it on the railing overlooking the gardens.

She could sit out there for hours, in the sun, at Storm’s End it was always raining. Thunder and lighting a never ending stream. She’d grown accustomed to it, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it. Sansa missed home, and she knew she’d miss Kings Landing once they left.

When the door creaks open, she already knows who it is and flinches when he yells out her name. She can hardly believe she is supposed to marry this monster. She’s already had her moon’s blood, but father had made Robert promise to not wed her to him until she was six and ten- which meant she’d soon be his wife.

By the next moon, that is.

Sansa spins, turning to her betrothed and entering the chamber quickly. “Yes?” She asks, curious with a thin brow lifted. He gives her a look, one of disgust, but there is a slant ardor hidden beneath the emerald hue. Sansa imagines she must look entirely scandalous, but she had changed out her old gowns for the one’s Rhaenys had offered.

Dornish in flavor and color. Sansa hadn’t mind, they were beautiful, if not showing a little too much skin. Not enough to pique the court’s into gambling with horrid rumors, of course. But it showed a great more than what she initially takes to covering herself with.

“What are you wearing?” He tilts his head, it is not in disapproval but curiosity. The young wolf maiden finds that a sign of acceptance.

Breathing in deeply, she gives him a sweet smile. “A dress, my lord.” He shakes his head.

“It’s just silk.” He responds and she nods.

“The princess was kind enough to lend her clothes to me. The one’s I brought make me uncomfortable, especially in this heat..” Joffrey bites his lips, as if deciding he truly liked what he saw. She waits as patiently as she can, being careful not to anger him.

The last time she angered him she earned formidable bruises down her back and arms. He frowns. Something sinks deep within her chest and she feels like running away. “No. Change it.” He demands.

She doesn’t want to argue, but when she is slow to move he yells “Take it off, now!”

From the corner of her eye she finds something tall standing in the doorway, tall and luminous. Paying it no attention she waltz away from him, intending to change behind the screen as she gathers her skirts, flock, corset and the rest with her. Bundled all in her arms. However, she pauses in surprise when what she thought to be nothing at the doorway speaks up.

“Is there a problem?” Quickly, she twirls, looking to find a tall man standing there. Dark and handsome, and the King’s son.

Prince Jon gives a glare towards Joffrey. “No, not that it is any of your business.” Joffrey amends, crossing his arms. “Sansa, dress, now.” Jumping, she nods, shifting towards the screen.

The prince coughs. “I would not suggest a change in clothes, my lady, it is quite hot today.” He lifts a brow, folding his arms. Joffrey doesn’t like it, she can tell, and while she would love to listen to this prince she cannot. Not when she’d be sent back to Storm’s End, where he would punish her for not listening to him. Sansa gives a curtsey, the silks of peach and gold pool to her feet.

“I thank you for your insight, your grace, but I must listen to my dearly beloved.” She responds hollowly. When she stands she can see the frown on his face clear as day.

She does not react, no matter how she wished to and hides behind the screen. With heavy footfalls, she know’s he has left.

 

* * *

 

Jon marches his way towards his father’s chambers, flippantly giving the servants a mixed look of aggravation and sympathy. She may not have known, but her betrothed had just as he. The swell of bruises lining her arms, they were large, and noticeable.

Not doubt the young man would have allowed her to wear such a dress, if only for his own attraction towards her- yet the marks he had given her ruined much for the golden lord.

The young lady Stark must have thought them to be gone by now. Knocking on his father’s door he taps his foot. He’d been called for, the King requesting his youngest child. Jon know’s he should have ignored what he saw, but he couldn’t just watch nor leave.

Not his own cousin. And while he barely knows her she deserved to be cared for and treated well- any woman deserved that much. When his father calls from within Jon hesitantly steps inside, finding Aegon and Rhaenys just inside. He halts, for a moment, before stepping all the way in and closing the door behind himself. “Father.” He carefully voices, coming to stand next to his sister.

She gives him a small smile before his father proceeds with whatever it is he wished to speak about with all of them. Rhaegar stands from his chair, giving them all a pointed look.

“The tournament is tomorrow.” He says pointedly. Looking to Jon then Aegon. “I know the both of you plan to join.” They nod. “Good, whomever wins must choose their bride.” There’s an eerie silence that lifts in the room. Aegon looks confused and Jon unsettled.

“One of you must wed.” He adds. Rhaenys folds her arms, arching a brow in confusion.

“Father, what does this have to do with me?”

“Whether they choose you or not to be the Queen of Love and Beauty, you are wedding one of them.” Jon stiffens, as does Rhaenys. Aegon, seemingly fine with the thought, shrugs. “Afterwards, I will choose your wife.” Jon doesn’t know how to feel about this.

So all he can say is “What?” Gaping as if all that his father had just said left him completely. Rhaegar sighs.

“Jon, if you win, you choose your wife. Aegon, same goes for you.” He turns his back to them, sitting back down. “Whoever loses, or chooses Rhaenys will wed her." Jon gives a skirmish look. Wanting to ask why he had made such arrangements for them. 

Aegon does it for him. "Why?" Rhaegar sighs. 

"I need grandchildren, you need heirs- and visiting the brothel does not change the fact you need a wife." Aegon flushes, Jon holding in the temptation to laugh out loud. No one adds onto what Aegon had asked, understanding their father's situation. It was true. One of them needed an heir soon. 

No one speaks, and they take it as a sign to leave. Jon is the last to exit, folding his arms with a knitted brow. Rhaenys pauses beside him, rubbing his shoulder. “It is alright.” She gives him a kind smile, so much like mother’s.

And while Elia had not birthed him she had treated him as the rest of her children. Called him her son, despite not growing inside her. She fed him as she fed Aegon, and claimed that it didn’t matter whom he came from. She raised him and he was hers.

Jon was lucky to find a woman such as her, to have a woman so kind and motherly towards him. And it is Rhaenys smile that reminds him of her. “If you win, I will not be bothered if you do not choose me.” She jests, giving him a little giggle before walking off. Though not before calling out “I will expect compensation, however, perhaps jewels?” He laughs. When she nears Aegon she gives him a soft glare. “Same goes for you.”

Aegon turns to Jon, shrugs and gives out a soft laugh.

Perhap’s it would not be so bad? Surely there were many out who would catch his eyes, not just his sister. While he found himself attracted to her, he felt uncomfortable with it. For she was his sister, and a part of him despised such a thought.

Jon also know’s Aegon will have no issue in such a matter. That is if Jon even wins at the tourney, it has been some time since he has jousted.

 

* * *

 

Sansa nearly jumps when a man flies off his horse, skidding across the dirt in a heap. She frowns, the poor man, all of them have been fighting eagerly now. Ever since the King announced the victor may choose a wife from the crowd.

However, he did not mention anyone. He said only his sons names. The King must be quite confident in their abilities to assume that no one would rival the two of them. She on the other hand was not certain. She’s never seen them fight.

Despite the idea of it all, she squeezes in close to her brother Robb, who gives her a bright smile. He had decided not to participate. He thought all the men to eager, and he was already promised to Margaery Tyrell- well, they had already been wed. A beautiful woman, whom Sansa had just met.

Sansa enjoyed her presence, found it comforting. The lovely woman sits on the other side of Robb, giving him sweet kisses on the cheek and laughing at the very few comments he makes towards the gaudy men.

The young flower only scolds him once, when he makes a jest on behalf of Sansa when Joffrey jousts as well. Sansa had laughed, but it was quite something disgusting and very unlady like- Robb had suggested that his lance was longer because he had to compensate for what lied in his breaches.

And while she had laughed herself, many had heard and so the new lady Stark played the dutiful wife. When it came to the two prince’s, she had to say, she was surprised. They were good, great even, and Robb had acknowledged. Something he never does.

Of course father had said nothing the entire time, only asking if she was alright, how she was doing, he held her the longest when he arrived in Kings Landing before the tournament. Sansa eventually grew a bit bored.

As the hours pass by it is down to two competitors. Her betrothed, Joffrey, and the prince Jon Targaryen.

 

* * *

 

Jon, despite himself, was eager to throw the little prick off his horse. He’s seen the way he jousts, and while he was good enough to take Aegon off his own steed, he was not well off enough when it came to Jon.

Before they began, he searched for the lady Stark, the young one with the red hair. She is close to the front, with her brothers, father and mother and he assumes her sister. He’s never met the younger children.

Her eyes seem to catch his own and he sends her a small smile. One of concern and worry, and hopefully it relays something kin to hope. Protection, mayhaps? This seems to make her uncomfortable, for she returns her attention to Joffrey and cheers him on. But he can see through the false smile.

When he hops onto his horse he makes a silent promise, to knock that bastard down so hard he feels as if he might die. He hardly knew his cousin, but he was positive she’d enjoy such a thing. To see such a lame excuse for an heir, for a boy who is supposedly a Baratheon.

Clutching tightly to his lance he lunges forward, and he can feel the Baratheon smirking. Everyone is on the edge of their seats, and they scream as Jon wins his victory. The lance thrusting him so far he rolls, hits his head hard enough for it to bleed.

Everyone stands, clapping and calling his name.

Taking off his helmet he sighs, licking his lips in satisfaction. When he looks to her, see’s the bright smile placid on her lips he finds his chest tightening. She was a beauty, and her beauty was being destroyed by the piece of shit she’d been betrothed to. It’s a quick decision really, one he hadn’t thought through, not when the loral of roses line his lance and he starts towards her. There are women screaming at him, numerous and unknown. Some are pretty, other’s scare him actually.

With such a possessive stares he might actually worry for his safety if it weren’t for the horse and lance. He stops before her, lying the crimson floral on her lap, for she had not stood. Naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty- and his wife to be.

It’s then all the smiles die.

Absolutely all of them. The silence is overwhelming and she seems aghast. Confused. Scared maybe? His uncle, he does not glare, only watches in concern.

For it was another Targaryen taking a Stark from her Baratheon. And this time there would be no war, no, for his father had said anyone. He never said a woman promised to another was off limits.

Sansa doesn’t look at him, only gawks at the roses before shakily taking them in hand. Rubbing her thumb on the petals. If Joffrey were saying anything Jon does not hear it, not until he marches up and rips the roses out of her hands.

That’s when the silence leaves and people are gasping and whispering. Jon gives the man a glare. “What do you think you’re doing?” The small little lord complains, voice streaked in fury. Jon looks down on him, as a prince does and runs his lance at his chest.

The flat of it hitting him and sending him to the ground. Jon know’s at this very moment Rhaenys is giggling behind her hand and Aegon is snickering. Father says nothing. Only watches, and for mother?

He thinks she heard her gasp.

Jon gets off his horse, halting all Kingsguard with the lift of his hand. He leans down, rips the crown from his greedy little hands and is sure to send him the most chilling scowl he can conjure. He stands, brushing off the crown with a certain delicacy, being sure to let Sansa see. He would never harm her.

“I believe I am taking your betrothed as my own.” He responds, a cocky tone lifting his lips into a smile. “If me naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty was any indication.”

The young man sits up. “You cannot do that!” Jon lifts a brow- he had no control, did he? How had his uncle allow this relationship to foster? The only explanation is that he did not know himself. Of course, Jon would not name her abuse in front of the entire scape, where lords and lady’s resided.

Jon cocks his head, finally sending his gaze towards his father, who simply stares, cold and distant. “Yes, I can.” He voices pointedly. Joffrey stands, raises his fist, and he can feel the entirety of the tourney guests tense. However it ends poorly for the boy, Jon slamming his fist into him quite eagerly. The Baratheon lands to the floor once more, nose scuffed in blood and Jon’s hand throbbing. Rhaegar does not need to say much for the Kingsguard to take him away.

Jon, with a sigh, walks back towards Sansa. Who is still in awe, query, and something kin to appreciation. Handing her the crown he offers her an easy smile. “That was supposed to be romantic, but I will admit, I have never been good at that sort of thing.”

Sansa, she smiles, and it’s happy. Lying the loral atop her copper locks she tilts her head. “Are we to wed, then?” He can hear the pure glee in her voice.

He nods. “Yes, my princess.”


	12. Nissa Nissa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thickskinandelasticheart asked: Since I LOVED what you did with the last prompt and since I'm a sucker for angst, Sansa is the Nissa Nissa to Jon's Azor Azai ~

***

***

Sansa holds to his shoulders, tears shrinking under the dim sunlight as she attempts to keep it all in. To hide her tears, her aching sobs, the breath taking pain of acknowledging who she is and what she will become. And who will take her life. Sansa has never been one for a sad ending, but she never thought she’d receive a happy ending either. It’s hell. To know she’d been sent to the earth only to die, simply because she fell in love with the great Azor Ahai.

And he with her. Melisandre had told them, early in the battle that Jon must sink his sword into her. Have the steel plunge and drain her of her blood, for only then it would alight with flame. Only then would they stop the Others.

At first she hadn’t believed her, mostly out of fear- she was frighted. Terrified of the idea of Jon killing her. Over a prophecy they don’t even know is true or not yet. But now they both know it is. The Other’s trampling their armies, having already ripped apart one of the Dragon Queen’s children- the green one. For the life of her she cannot remember the scaled creatures name.

And she doesn’t care. Jon is yelling at her, declaring he would never do it, not for the Other’s, not for the Gods; old or new. That is the pain inside, the agony that wells knowing she will have to convince him in doing this.

“Jon, you must listen.” She all but whimpers, pulling his face close with her hands, fingers now stained with the blood and dirt that lies there.

She hasn’t seen him this dirty since the day they fought for Winterfell. He shakes his head, hand palming her own as he nuzzles his cheek in.

Tears already track through the muck on his face. “I will not kill you, not for a-”

“Jon, we don’t have much of a choice!” Sansa doesn’t want to pull back, but she does, for they do not have much time. Winterfell would only hold for so long and she can hear the screams of the dead just outside the gates. “Ten thousand, that is enough men to hold of the millions outside that gate once you-”

“I cannot, and I will not.” He is stubborn, she didn’t expect it to be easy, but she hadn’t thought it to be this hard. With death right at their back, beckoning over the walls and singing dead into the falling snow. “I love you.”

She frowns, sniffs, and keeps the will of holding the tears back strong from within. “I love you too, that is why you must go through with this.”

“Can’t you see, I don’t care about the world, let it fall- let’s leave, find somewhere safe, there has to be somewhere safe.” He argues, his eyes of steel molten in flame. “Perhaps west of Westeros, or East of Essos, or anywhere, some place far from here.”

Sansa’s frown slowly eases into a glare. “You wish to end this world for your selfish love? This is our home!” She all but screams, Jon pulling her close.

“We can make a new home, get married, have children. We can name them Robb, Eddard, Arya and Rickon, even Catelyn or perhaps Lyanna.” There’s something close to breaking inside her chest, and she feels she might as well thrust the sword in herself.

Sansa gives a light push. “You mean to take this away from Arya? Bran? What about the rest out there?” Jon doesn’t light up, but she is certain he see’s reason. “This isn’t just our world, our home, it’s there’s, and we have to protect it. For them.”

Jon has never been selfish, she know’s this, and it is hard to see him being so now. He must be desperate, terrified. Just as she is. When a snap is heard at the gates and the chaos grows she pulls him close.

Taking his lips to her own, tasting the blood and death caking them, and a soft sob breaks through. She pulls back, just for a moment, “There is no other way- please, do it.” He’s shaking, trembling, and the screech of steel leaving it’s sheath has her heart thundering with the might of a thousand dragons.

Without hesitance she brings her hands around the back of his head, pulling him in for another long kiss, breaching his mouth with little to no thought. Again, she pulls away, only a small distance, their noses touching.

“Kill me while I am still in you arms and not the Other’s.” A chocked sob leaves him the same time she feels it, it’s numb at first. She is in shock and the pulsing ache deep down in her stomach feels odd, tingling up her rib cage as her nails dig into the back of his neck. He is stifling his wails, eyes stained red as the air is drawn from her lungs.

Sansa has never thought of being skewered as she is. Never once has it occurred to her that it might happen. Of all the things in this hell she thought it might be poison, or Ramsay’s hounds, or her own loss of blood or lack of nourishment.

Or mayhap’s herself. There had been many times she thought of throwing herself off the highest tower in the Red Keep. Just to keep away from her tormentors, to see her brother and mother and father.

She chokes out, something barely above a whisper, and something pitiful sinks within her. “Jon.” She does not scream, wail or shout- she holds it back. For him. He cannot go to battle with his last memory of her curling in agony for the sake of the rest. He would break, at one point he was fall. And it was unknown if Melisandre could bring him back again- having done it twice already.

Her knees cave and she feels herself dropping, Jon slowly pulling the sword out as she lies on the snow, Jon cradling her in his arms. Sansa finds she may be able to speak, if she tries hard enough. And she can, mustering the strength needed to keep him near at ease. To know she is at peace knowing he will save thousands, if not millions of lives.

“I’ll see them.” She murmurs, a sad smile on her face. “I’ll see father, mother, Rickon and Robb- I’ll see all of them.” Humming out as a twinge of pain swell in her back she brings her hand up to palm his cheek. “And I will wait for you. We all will.”

Jon doesn’t hold back the sob, brushing the hair out of her face with trembling fingers. “I promise, I will, wherever possible so I may be the first face you see when you are gone.” The words are barely made out, raspy and gone. But he can understand and that’s all she needs. It feels colder, a lot colder, and the sting dwelling within her numbs and she only feels dizzy. Almost sick but in some strange sense, at peace.

“I don’t want you to leave me.” He sulks, lips quivering. Sansa nuzzles her head into him the best she can. “I don’t want this.”

Sansa can feel herself slipping, she doesn’t know how to describe it, but she can feel it. In her bones, settled deep within the dust that has settled there, it’s as if all her wounds and past scars are healed and mended. Her hand falls from his face and with her last breath she says his name, of course she is still aware of her surroundings, but she cannot manage her eyes to open nor her lips to move.

Jon’s panic has her shaken, he holds her to his chest as he rocks back and forth, her body limp and gone. He about screams, instead he kisses her one last time before leaving her to the the snow- where the gates crash open and the wisp of fire is heard throughout the keep, a draw of hope.

He leaves- and she is left with fire in her lungs and the rest utterly cold.

 

                                                      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this hurt to write


	13. The Wolf, Lion and Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quietlydesperatelives asked: Can we have a Jonsa fic in which Jaime comes up to Winterfell and bonds with Sansa, making Jon jealous?
> 
> klvroline said: Sansa is queen of the north and Jaime gives up everything to be her hand. They are close and that makes Jon jealous. Jaime teases him about it a lot
> 
> Two birds, one stone. Enjoy!

***

***

Jon did not mind. Not at first. The Kingslayer had proved useful, leading half the Lannister army towards the North in retaliation of Cersei being on the throne. The other portion kept to keep Casterly Rock in one piece. He had been fine with it because Sansa did not trust him. She threatened him with death once, when he had gone and done something without her knowledge of it. He does not know exactly what it was, but she had been furious with him.

Brienne had been able to manage her temper, but only a little. Jon believed he was only there for Brienne, with how he looked at her, and not for Sansa. As he kept claiming with strong virtue, never relenting with his noted ‘honor’.

Or what he said was left of it.

He had only wished to protect her, because he had made a promise to Catelyn Stark that he would. And he would not leave that request untouched. And after a time, when Petyr had pushed much too far, he was left out of what she had planned.

Jaime however knew her every move. Of taking Littlefinger for a walk, with Jaime trailing behind, for he is to protecter, is he not? And to not only threaten him, but kill him. Sansa had come back to Winterfell with blood on her gown and a sword painted crimson.

She had taken his head herself, courtesy of Jaime Lannister, who had held the man down as she swung the sword. Jon, at first, had been enraged. How could she not tell him? After repeatedly stating that she would never do so again. Sansa claims it was for his protection, and that he is a horrible liar. It eases him, only a little, and is concerned when the knights of the Vale take their leave. Somehow she had managed to keep Sweetrobin on her side.

And in time, when the knights returned, she had told him the Lannister guard would help keep Winterfell safe. On orders of Jaime Lannister. With Brienne whispering in her ear, no doubt only good things came from that woman, and Jaime was soon close. Not close enough to become her sword and shield, and not close enough for her to trust him.

But enough for him to have a smug smirk placid on Jon when she calls him “Ser Jaime” Rather than Kingslayer. A sign of respect. Not trust. But respect.

Jon didn’t like it. But he keeps his distaste to himself. Sansa knew what she was doing, his sister was smart, dangerous, and has even been named a dangerous player of the game. Much worse than Littlefinger himself. Or that is what the Kingslayer says.

Jon thinks the man is attempting to keep to her good side, which is smart, and he does so with compliments and chivalry. Sansa never responds to it, simply stares in hidden amusement. And then she smiles at him and Jon thinks he may break. For that was a smile she saved for him. It is enough to have Jon find the Kingslayer and question his intentions. As he does now. Again. Concerned for his dear sister.

The Kingslayer looks confused, mirth lying beneath the fixture of hidden anger. Opposition, Jon believes. “Your grace, you wound me.” He jests, emerald hue glinting as he says so. His hand lies on his chest, armor clinking as he does so.

Lannister armor. Jon cringes.

“I am just concerned, Sansa is my sister, it is my right as King and brother to know what it is you plan.” Jaime, he gives this sly smirk, and something in him curls. Having him grow nauseous.

The Kingslayer shrugs, reach back down to continue the sharpening of his sword. It was of no disrespect, the sword was blunt, it needed the work. However, Jon is King, and for the first time ever he feel the demand of it. That this ‘subject’ must listen.

Even so, Jon waits. “I only wish to serve her.” Jaime says, tight lipped and teeth gritted. “She is my last chance for-”

“Honor?” Jon interrupts. “She is not your way to redemption, she is the Lady of Winterfell, not an object that may clean your corrupt decisions. Regardless if she allows her trust in you, you will always live in your past. That is how men like you survive.” The Kingslayer looks mere seconds from snarling, for lions have claws, and they may be just as sharp as a wolf’s. However he reminds himself who it is he speaks to. Not a bastard but a King. A man who has concern for his sister.

“What are you two doing?” The voice, so sweet and tragic, has him and the Kingslayer flinching. Jon meets her eyes, they are cold and unbaring of care.

She is pristine, hands folded before herself, a gown of ivory silk and cloth, it is a sight. A breathless one at that. And it seems he is not the only one who seems to think that way. Jon, he is the one quick to act.

“We were talking.” Jon says simply, voice void of the anger that had piqued earlier. She would be proud of him for being able to hide such animosity.

Even if she may be able to tell as it is. Sansa does not seem angry, confused yes, but not angry. And for that he is grateful. “I have been looking for you, your grace.” She claims, stepping forth. “I wish to speak in privacy, in your chambers.” Jon nods, leaving Jaime alone as he watches.

Almost longingly. Something kin to arrogant delight wells inside his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa had wanted to speak about Cersei in that moment. He remembers it clearly. Sansa wanted her dead. And she wanted to be the one who took everything she held dear. Jon, while he had ignored the concern for her fury, knew deep inside that Jaime had been one of those she held dear.

No matter how far he traveled, the Queen was apt in his love, and sighed once sight of him in red and gold entered the throne room. It didn't disappear as he would have thought it would when he and Sansa entered with a good portion of an army at his back.

“Jaime.” She breathes, eyes blown wide, alight with wildfire. He had heard of her burning the Sept of Baelor. Destroying half of Kings Landing with her selfish devotion. Killing her last child in the process.

And he thinks, this is the mad King, this is what she had become. This one only wears a crown of gold, not silver. Sansa seems to think the same, marching towards the woman. That is when Cersei glares, and it is the Mountain that comes to her defense.

Sansa ignores the bulking man and both Jaime and Jon despair in worry. It was is if she knew the man would not touch her. He remembers he saying, at one point, that hounds held a special place for her in their hearts. He hadn’t paid attention to the end of it, and now it made sense. “Jaime.” Cersei’s voice is demanding. “Kill her, kill the Stark bitch.”

Men seem ready to attack, for Sansa stops immediately by his side. And he does nothing. Much to Jon’s surprise. “You wish for my trust, ser Jaime?” Her voice spans the throne room, strong and loud.

The sound of a Queen.

Jaime almost seems eager. Turning to look at him, there is a glimmer in those eyes of ice. “Yes, my lady.” Jaime bows his head, a shriek shrills his ears, Cersei coming to stand. Eyes a wave of madness, lips pursed in a fury he thought only a Baratheon could manage.

Sansa takes three steps back for every one the lioness takes. “Good.” She answers. “Kill her. Choke the life from her, and I offer you not only my trust, but your sword at my side.”

Jon never thought he’d hear something so cruel come out so dull. He didn’t blame her. The woman deserved it. What shocked him is that she is now ordering the Queen’s once lover, father of her children, to choke her to death.

And he does. With that golden hand of his he has her against the stairs, struggling to rip his ‘hand’ away as it digs into her pale, white throat. Sansa does not look away. She watches, pleased. This is how he know’s she deserved it. Deserved everything.

If Sansa had looked away…That would have been another story altogether. For the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword, and if you cannot bear to look at the sentence you have passed or do it yourself, the convicted does not deserve it.

When Cersei stops struggling, Sansa nods at him, for he immediately offers his services and she accepts. It is then she turns to Jon, a small smile crowding her lips, and his heart stammers. It is a new, lovely look for her.

“Jon, we must speak.” It sounds urgent. “Jaime, keep watch of the throne. No man will sit on it, is that understood?” He nods.

Jon realizes, this has more to do with him than anything else.

* * *

 

Jon is a Targaryen.

It still has him stirred in confusion. But Howland Reed had admitted it when Sansa had called him forth and demanded the truth. For she had found a letter, written by Lyanna in father’s- his uncle’s old chancery.

It was written for him. He has read it time and time again and it still pains him. Jon has managed the news like any other. With swift recognition and contemporary anger. It fades over time and he finds out that Sansa not only wished for Cersei’s death, but for him to be King.

He declines, time and time again, and in the end she convinces him it is the right thing to do. Now he is King of all seven kingdoms. He doesn’t know how he particularly feels about it. Especially as Sansa flaunts women in front of him.

An attempt to have him take a wife. He wishes to say he does not want one unless it is her, but she is content and wants her to be happy. Not miserable. Even so, after a long day of courtly matters, he wishes to speak with Sansa alone.

To at least ask of her to stop. He had no need of a Queen. He would, one day, but that day was not today. When he reaches her chambers, the Maidenvault empty, he is stopped dead in his tracks to find Jaime leaving it. A sly smile claiming his lips, as if he had won something.

Jon starts forward, he does not know what he will do, but he is angry enough to head forward without thought. He immediately, much to his distaste, thinks Sansa is sharing her bed with him. For it is late, he does not wear armor, only a loose doublet, trousers and a smile.

When the Kingslayer finds him, he gives a smirk, bowing. “My King.” Jon halts, glaring a hole straight through him. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to hurt someone as badly as he wants to hurt Jaime fucking Lannister.

The door is thin however, and he can hear Sansa welcoming him in if he wishes to. Before he enters he simply says “Do not touch her. Ever. That is order from your King.”

He is stopped when Jaime voices his own thoughts. “I would never dream of it. I’ve had my fill of sisterly romance.” Jon, he snaps, and thrusts him towards a wall. Hand on his throat, nearly choking the life from him the way he had Cersei. Jaime is not smiling anymore, instead there is slant worry. Sansa is quick to exits her chambers to see what is happening.

“Jon.” Her voice is low, a warning, he does not let go of Jaime. So she repeats his name, louder this time, and he looks at her. “Jon we were just sharing a drink. Calm down.”

Immediately Jaime is dropped to the floor, and he groans. “Stark men, slow minds, quick anger. I forget that, sometimes..” Jon pretends he did not just hear that. He follows her into her chambers, still green with envy, even if he may not notice it himself. Sansa looks at him, lifting a delicate brow, the petal of her lips pursed.

Jon waits for her to scold him. “Wine?” She asks, instead, there is no glower, no frown, amusement he believes. But none of the above. He nods, and she pours him a cup, handing the chalice to him. He takes a long sip, sitting down. Sansa smiles at him.

Something he hasn’t grown quite accustomed to yet. “Jon.” He looks up at her, for she is still standing. “I do not have any sort of attraction to the man, if that is what you are worried about.” Jon lifts his brows.

Had he been that obvious?

“Oh.” Is all he can answer in response.

She settles down next to him. Staring at the fire, a small smirk still placed on her lips. “I happen to fancy another.”

He cannot control it, he swears, and something inside pinches. As if he might burst into flames. “Who?” He nearly growls, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to scare her.

Surprised, he finds her laughing. “You would not know him.” She giggles. Lady like in the way she does so.

“I think I would.” He manages to reply in a much softer tone.

“You do?”

He nods, setting his chalice beside him and folding his arms. Sansa tilts her head. “Is it Willas Tyrell?” He’s been courting her for some time.

She shakes her head. “Guess again.”

He frowns. If not Willas, would it not have been Jaime? This made no sense and he was at a loss, as always. When she spots the illusion she clicks her tongue.

That is before she brings his lips to her own, soft, delicate, and chaste. When she pulls away he is dumbfounded, stupefaction painting him red. “You.” She smiles, beams brighter than the sun, leaning into him. “You.” She repeats, soft, sweet.

Her palm envelopes his cheek, bringing him back to her. Slotting her mouth against his own greedily. And he wonders why he had been concerned in the first place?


	14. Kissed by Fire I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alissa (I think? She submitted and the layout was all weird and her username left): Hey can you do one where Sansa hears Jon talking about Ygritte and gives him the cold shoulder?
> 
> Useless angst. I feel like all the prompts I've written have ended happily. So yeah. This is sad for no reason when it could have been easily happy.

***

***

When Sansa had over heard Jon speaking with Tormund, she had not thought over it much. Despite this, she stood still and listened. A name capturing her attention. She’d heard little, of a woman named Ygritte.

And how much he missed her. He sounded deep in his cups, however that didn’t drain any of the...Jealousy? She didn’t know what it was. Regardless, it still sat deep inside her, like a seed sprouting before she could let it wither.

With deft ignorance she plays the pretty lady, and for the next half week ignores Jon. She knows it is childish, and she doesn’t even understand why she does it. When he asks her questions or attempts to sit next to her she moves or gives him short replies.

The guilt doesn’t help, he gives her these looks, confusion and hurt. Obviously not understanding why she is doing this. Did she not trust him anymore? Did she hate him? Did she betray him? These must be the questions he pends on day after day.

Even Sansa does not understand her hatred, the annoyance that carved deep within her the moment she heard the name. Of a woman she can’t even begin to fathom, for she has never known of her, Jon has never mentioned her.

Sansa decides she wants to learn more of the mystery woman. But she doesn’t bother asking Jon himself. Instead she searches for Tormund, always finding him in either the kitchens, courtyard, or if Brienne is not with herself she’d find the man following her like a lost puppy.

She’d laugh if she weren’t so...irritated.

When she approaches him he lifts a brow, Brienne glancing back in relief. “Brienne, I would like to speak with Tormund in privacy, if you would not mind.” The warrior nods, leaving quickly.

Tormund looks as intrigued as he does confused. “Who is Ygritte.” She says simply. Folding her arms as his eyes widen, if only a fraction.

She nearly opens her mouth again for a response. Luckily, he responds. “Why do you want to know, mi’lady.” It’s mocking at the end, and she does not mind, Tormund is a friend, but the answer is far from satisfying.

“Because I want to.” Her voice is sharp and he seems to understand this is not the time for jesting or playing with her temper.

“Well, it depends.” He says slowly. She lifts a brow, delicate and angry. Impatient. “As a ‘wildling’ or Jon’s...well, Jon’s lover?” Sansa thinks her heart is frozen, just as the rest of her goes frigid.

Lover? Was that possible? Jon had taken the black, had he not? That forbid any sort of sexual interaction. Unless he had anyways. That is what the title lover entitled. Unless somehow she was wrong. Though she doubted it.

Sansa says nothing more, walks of with a scowl on her face in inexplicable anger.

 

* * *

 

Sansa gawks aimlessly at her book, hands pale in comparison to the sheets of parchment. A knock, soft but all the same as ominous as thunder, has her leaving the page of black and white. She stares at the door for a moment, before asking who it was.

When she heard Jon she stiffened. Debating on whether or not she should allow him in. Before she can truly think it through he enters anyways, a solemn stare to fit his sullen eyes. Sansa gives him a short handed glare.

“I did not say you were welcome in my chambers, Jon.” He does not move, regardless with how unhappy she sounds.

Instead he stands tall, rigid almost, the frown never leaving. He finally speaks after a second of silence. “Tormund told me.” He said. “About Ygritte.” His tone does not sound as pained as it had when she heard him reminisce about it.

Sansa frowns, returning her attention back to her book. Jon marches forward, slow, but fast enough to have her startled. “Why did you ask about her?” He does not question how she knew about his ‘lover’, simply stands, angry, infuriated, confused.

And by all rights, he has reason to. She’d left him cold for the past week, she would be angry as well, it is just Sansa is not used to this. This feeling of loss. And in attempt to keep herself sheltered, she pushed him away.

Gave him the cold shoulder.

“Because I wanted to know who she was.” Sansa murmurs, flipping the page as if they weren’t even having this conversation. It was as if this green monster had possessed her. Took control of her body and now she had no way in stopping it.

Jon sighs. “Why did you not ask me, then?” She does not respond. “Is this why you have been avoiding me?”

When she doesn’t reply, as she did just a second ago, he has this glare on his face that she’s never seen before. “I thought I’d done something wrong, Sansa, I thought that perhaps I stepped out of line, made you uncomfortable-”

“You did make me uncomfortable.” She bites, returning the glare tenfold. “I thought I could trust you.” The words don’t even make sense to herself, but it is how she feels.

Jon, he nears her seat, and when she stands to leave his presence, the look of hurt sends a hampered weight of glum to the pit of her stomach.

He pinches at his nose. A deep frown engraving his lips. “I do not understand. What did I do to lose your trust?” She doesn’t have a response, because he has done nothing to gain such grievance from her.

Sansa only stares at him, cold, unwavering. “Did you love her?” The question throws him off, his eyes widening the way Tormunds had. “Is she still alive? I would think not, with how you spoke of her, however I still wish to know.”

“No.” He grits out. She does not know if that is the answer for her first question, the last or both. “She died at Castle Black.” Something horrid squeezes at her chest. With needed addition he says “I did love her, but she is dead now.”

That answered her question. “Oh.” Is all she can say, her stomach dropping the way her heart has. She’s a horrible person. Sadly, that knowledge does not stop her from feeling the gritty ping of anger and jealousy, or envy she supposes. This woman, this dead woman belonged to Jon. And seemingly he belonged to her. Why did it hurt so much to know this? Why did she feel as if she might break? Shatter the way ice does upon the ground.

Jon is before her in a seconds notice, hesitantly swiping at her cheek, and it’s then she realizes she’s been crying. Souse licking at her cheeks, sipping at her lips and dwelling in her blue pools.

“Sansa-” She pulls him into a hug before he can finish whatever it was he planned on saying.

Nuzzling her face into the crook of her neck, she can hear his breath hitch, his arms slowly wrapping around her back. Keeping her close. She’d rather stay this way for the rest of the night than hear the rest of this story. It was agonizing to realize he had a life before her. The reason still unknown, for it should not affect her this way. She shouldn’t be reacting this way.

Sansa was stronger than this. She was supposed to be. After everything she’s been through she finds it hard to understand why it is Jon knowing another woman that has her weeping into his shoulder.

Not father’s death, not the loss of Robb or mother, nor the time she had to withstand with Ramsay- she’s already wept over those situations. Real, serious situations. That had affected her in such a way she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to forget them.

But this? Jon’s relationship with a wildling she’s never known of until now, it is unreasonable. It should not be what has her squeezing her eyes shut tight, or why she digs her fingers into his back. This was ridiculous. It was upsetting.

Arya would be mocking her as of right now, if she were sitting in the same chamber as the two of them. Claim that she was acting a child. And personally, yes, she was. A sickly little girl who felt as if she had been told that her stories, those songs she’d dwell in, they weren’t real.

What hurts worse is she already knows this. She didn’t need the willful, strong, and boyish little girl to tell her this. She already knew.

He rubs her back, another hand streaming through her locks of copper. “What is the matter?” He sounds terrified, as if he were the cause for all this. He wasn’t. But she doesn’t know how to tell him without her voice breaking. She did not want to sound weak. She was a Stark. A wolf. Wolves were strong.

She was strong.

As if her heart knew before the rest of herself, it slips from her lips, the way a child whines over a broken toy. “I love you.” He stiffens the way she burrows deeper, as if the words hadn’t just fell from her lips.

“What?” He uses cautions when he asks this, non-moving and not breathing. Sansa inhales, the scent of pine and winter filling her lung. The smell of Jon and she has to bite her lip from sobbing.

She hates herself. What was wrong with her? Why does she act like this, would she act like this- this wasn’t love, this was jealousy, this was fury, this was the contempt of being unable to handle the fact that Jon had been involved before she found him.

Before he found her. Before he held her, spoke to her, shared his warmth. Before he had promised her protection and his warm embraces.

“Sansa…” The name slides from his lips and she hates it. She hates hearing him sound confused and broken, and for a moment she believes she’s heard disgust. Immediately she pulls away, holding herself and keeping her attention to the floor.

“Leave, please.” She utters, refusing to look at him. He attempts to say something, but she interrupts before a word can’t leave. “Please.”

And so he does, shutting her door softly and she finally allows herself to drop. A shrill wail contained by her hands as she rears against the wall.

She could never face him. Not with what she had just said. Not with what she just found of herself, buried deep beneath lies and secrets and thick skin- she had found herself lusting after her brother.

Her _brother._

Mother would have been disgusted, Robb as well, and father? She believes father would have given her that look of silenced outrage. Narrowed eyes and disapproving demeanor. Sansa was all three herself. The Gods would punish her for this- as if they haven’t already. Of all the people to love, it was him, the very man she thought horrible as a child.

The Gods were cruel, worse than the seven hells, than those who have harmed her throughout her life. They did this to hurt her.

She felt like she would scream, that she could, so she did. Hollow and empty, that is how she felt when she expressed her anger. Her dread. That is what she is now.


	15. Queen of Love and Beauty II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gabbygumsss asked: Rhaegar lives prompt where Jon is a Targaryen and crowns Sansa queen of love and beauty at a tourney after defeating Sansa’s betrothed, Joffrey Baratheon
> 
> Fluff. A lot of fluff.

***

***

  
Sansa sits happily, watching as Jon walks back and forth in his chamber- in which he invited her to. She would have thought it inappropriate if it weren’t for the fact she was now promised to him and not another.

Apparently the King and Queen wished to meet her. She thought she’d be more...nervous, like him, for he looked worried. But it only amused her. For how could she be upset when a knight in shining armor, just like in the stories and songs, saved her from the beast she would have soon called husband?

It would do her no good to be scared now, not when she felt safe, there was no reason to be frightened. Even father said this was good for her, that King Rhaegar would not allow her to stay with Joffrey, if he were to deny her Jon.

And Robb had approved immediately. Unlike Sansa, Robb was quite close with Jon, and he’d go to King’s Landing whenever he found the chance. Or Jon to Winterfell. They’ve met more so than she has. Considering she had been stuck at Storm’s End.

Robb had tried to bring her once, but she had denied, under the fear of meeting Joffrey’s wrath once she came back.

Though a small part of her felt bad for leaving Cersei. Would she have anyone to speak with when Sansa did not return, as the lioness expected? Perhaps she’d visit? Sansa stills when the King and Queen enter.

The chamber feels colder, much more than she expected. Especially for two whose sigil expresses the fire in life. A dragon and sun. Much of it dissipates when the Queen walks towards her with a gracious beam.

“You are absolutely lovely.” She coos, coming to sit next to her. Sansa is shocked upon hearing the accent. It’s not what she expected, and it’s utterly intoxicating. “And your hair is stunning, we do not have this color in Dorne.” The Queen curls a strand under her finger, smiling at the auburn. Sansa gives an embarrassed flush.

Rhaegar gives Elia a fond gaze before turning to his son. “Speak with me outside.” He comments, leading Jon away from the two women in his chamber. Sansa squirms with what little juncture she can.

They sit in silence, for only a moment, before the Queen speaks up again. “I am sorry, for what happened.” She mutters. “My son can be…” She stops, unable to find the words she seeks.

Sansa herself is surprised. The Queen calls another woman’s child her son? The same woman who had ran off with Rhaegar? That was honorable, courageous, it was Queenly. Sansa didn’t know how she would have acted if her husband brought home another woman’s babe that started a war.

The same age as her own true born, no less. They are both true borns, for Rhaegar claims he and Lyanna wed under a Weirwood, in respect for her Gods, and then had Jon. She doesn’t know how true that is, but people have accepted the tale as truth.

Sansa know’s her mother would have not acted the same.

“I thought it kind, your grace.” She responds softly. “And heroic, honorable, aboslu-” Sansa gives way, her voice breaking as she hides her blush. “Sorry, I did not mean to go on.” Elia beams.

“No, I am happy you are already accepting of my son. He does not usually act this way, hot blooded and quick without thought, for most days he broods.” She says with a laugh. “But I thought it great he found interest in you.”

Sansa looks to her in befuddlement. “Why, your grace?”

“Elia- I am to be your good mother, you should call me by my name.” Her voice is so endearing, it is enough to calm her nerves. “Or, if you wish, mother. Though I would think you uncomfortable with the term as of now.” Sansa gives a shy nod.

Elia takes Sansa’s hand in her own. “He never speaks with anyone, unless it is Rhaenys or I, I felt it time he met someone he was comfortable with. And he has met you before. I would assume that is why he chose you.”

Sansa goes rigid. It was that or sympathy, for he had walked in on Joffrey and her at the worse of times. Elia lifts a delicate brow. “Or for another matter entirely, but that is none of my business.” The Queen gives her a reassuring smile.

Both of them go quiet when they hear the King yell “She was and is promised to another!”

Sansa finally feels that fear settle in. Would the King send her back to Joffrey? She didn’t want that, far from it, and it has her hands shaking. Elia holds her tighter. “I will speak with him.” She say softly, motherly almost, and Sansa know’s she just adores the Queen.

And would not mind her as a second mother. “Oh, I cannot wait to have grandchildren.” She says with a large smile, the rigid bones in her body loosening at her words. Was she speaking generally for all her children or her and Jon? “I wonder, what will they look like. Your hair and his eyes or the other way around?” Sansa blushes.

She gives a shrug. “I do not know, your grace- I mean, E...Elia.”

Before they enter, the King and Jon, Elia whispers “You are safe here, I promise you that much.”

 

* * *

 

Jon finds he very much likes his wedding, he never thought he would, but he enjoys it far more than he previously had intended. And his lady wife seems to as well. With a smile on her face she takes another bite of her lemon cake, so carefully placed in her mouth.

Her pink lips blooming. They’ve already received their gifts, Jon a sword of Valyrian steel, a mantle of bear fur for when he visits the North, and three fossilized dragon eggs. They are beautiful, but tragically they will never become more than that.

Sansa had been gifted a jeweled dagger, given to her by Robb, he had not been surprised. Her mother and father had given her a necklace, a dire wolf carved into steel- and her dire wolf in itself. Lady. Who had been returned to her posthaste after Robert Baratheon had heard of what happened.

Rhaenys and mother had taken to giving her an entire new wardrobe, fit for a ‘princess’, as they had said. Though underneath the girl’s happiness, he can see the nerve under it all.

They were to lay together tonight, and while he had attempted to learn about as much as possible of her, he himself was a bit nervous as well. Simply because he has only ever lied with a woman once...Or twice. But it had been not nearly as much as his half-brother Aegon.

Who visits Baelish’s esteemed whore house every once in awhile.

When it is called by his father that they must consummate their marriage, they are sent away, where she sits on the edge of his bed with her legs crossed a pillow to her chest. Jon would be lying if he declared he didn’t wish to lie with her, but she looked scared.

And he didn’t want to add to that fear. “We don’t have to.” He says, voice soft and conservative. Sansa shakes her head.

“I…” Sansa looks to him, her lips quivering. “I want to...It’s just...I don’t know what to expect, I suppose.”

“I will not hurt you.” He murmurs, slowly walking towards her in hopes he might not scare her off. Carefully, he slides the nightgown away from her body, offering that she lie on the bed. She does so without thought. Alarmed but not cold- she thought this would be much more terrifying. 

 

* * *

 

Sansa’s heart is thudding, louder than ever and she swore she would be brave. She enjoyed his company, but that didn’t tail back the terror in the prospect of him lying with her. Taking her maiden head with one movement. He has her lie down, his eyes falling to her breasts and she fears he might reach for them. But he keeps his hands to himself. Even as they twitch at his side.

She is sensitive, with little to cover her it all tickles, the silk and cotton under her stinging at her skin, as if she had just caught on fire. And there is a subtle hunger in his grey eyes, while he attempts to keep it hidden she can see it, clear as the night stars.

Hesitantly, he reaches over, his palm clasping at her calf. His hands are softer than she had thought they would be- that is for a man who is always wielding a sword, or working with tempered steel and boiled leather.

Sansa is rigid for a moment, however she softens quickly and allows him to further his way. He lifts her up, pulling her back away from the bountiful silks. With little pause he kisses her, and it is his lips that are all the more rough than his own hands.

That now hold her thighs, trudging her towards the end of the bed so he may gather her closely. When his fingers ride further up, she stiffens and he pulls away. She frowns. “I apologize.” He shakes his head.

“You have no need to.” She nods, parting her legs, if only a little, and he is back before her. Warm, almost burning, like the fire far from them in the grate. Where it licks and kicks, she feels all the more flustered. “Relax.” He says softly, soothingly, and she wonders if he truly is Lyanna’s son.

For he acts much like Elia. Soft, caring, calming and soothing. She could listen to him speak for days as he does now. She supposes it is only natural, the sun of Dorne is the one who raised him as her own.

She keens into his hands when they round her spine, strong as they deftly knead the small of her back. He is staring at her lips, and she know’s he wishes to kiss her again. Leaning in, she takes his lips with a soft writhing.

He instantly smiles into the kiss, tugging her closer, his tongue readily slipping in before she has time to contemplate what is happening.

Sansa lets her eyes close, leaning into the kiss, parting her mouth further so he may have better access. He groans at the action, fingers now digging into her flesh. It has her curving towards him. He is quick to take her lower lip into his mouth, giving it a soft nip- it leaves her breathless.

She is flushed, half-drunk on his lips and she wishes this to last forever. And she wonders how she would have handled Joffrey. He scared her, and still does, but Jon? He is brave, gentle and strong. Her heart swells at the feel of his fingers curling at her arms.

For they swing into his black mass of curls, silk soft, perhaps even more so than her own. She has been taught a woman is the one made of gentle ivory. But her prince? He is made of pearl lined steel. And she loves it.

He pulls away, much to her desperate whines, and she sees it then. His eyes, dark as a storm, pooling with desire and heat. It should throw her off, send her curling into the bed the way Joffrey’s stare has, but it doesn’t. She meets his gaze, her blood struck in sunlight, broiling under her skin with a hefty speed. Jon does not say anything, simply parts her legs with those soft hands of his.

However, he does smile. It seems he does so more and more when around her. Elia and Rhaenys had made a point to tell her that. Even Aegon, who would laugh whenever Jon would flush.

Her thighs crackles at the sensation, as if the man before her was made of lightning. His hand lies flat on her stomach and lies her back down on the bed, and for a moment she is content with staring at the canopy. Then she feels the scruff of his beard on her stomach, and out of curiosity she looks down at him, watching as he motions her legs over his shoulders. With a smoldering heat he leans in, kissing her inner thigh.

Sansa has absolutely no idea what it is he plans to do, but she believes that her Septa would be disappointed. It is the woman’s job to pleasure, not the man. But she is intrigued enough to not ask what it is he plans.

He leans in, his lips meeting the junction between her legs and she gasps.

 

* * *

 

She has been his wife for nearly a year. And Sansa does not know if she has ever been this happy.

Lying bare on their shared bed, she swirls her fingers over a page in her book, legs cooped up and crossed. Jon groans, she can feel his stare, and he marches towards her. Wrapping his arms around her and flipping her over so she is on her back.

She giggles, the pure amusement flooding her swiftly. “I thought I said you should dress, or I might just have to take you once more.” She rolls her eyes, hands reaching up to roll at his hair- the hair she adores more than her own. Always scolding him for not keeping it clean or nice. For it was rather hard to string her fingers through it on late nights, when he is pressed against her and inside all at once. The knots getting in the way.

She spreads her legs, pulling him in, his body sliding between her thighs. “Then do it.” She urges, thrusting her hips to meet his. He grunts, burrowing his head between her neck and shoulder. Breathing her in the way she does him.

“We cannot, my father has asked for us to dine with him.” Sansa nips at his ear, pulling until he is parting from her in desperation. “Sanse, truly, I cannot-” She interrupts him with a heavy lipped kiss, fingers back to his head.

When she pulls away he’s breathing heavy, as is she. “I think he would not mind if we were late, if we told him we were just in the process of creating your heir.” Jon huffs, a weak smile on his lips.

He kisses her, fingers dancing on her skin, and she believes she might love him more than she ever thought possible.

Her _dragon._

He nods into her lips, parting them eagerly with his tongue. It would seem he agreed.

 

* * *

 

Jon believes Sansa has been acting strangely. For three days now she has been keeping to herself, and Jon doesn’t know what to make of it. He wants to hold her and speak to her. But she never responds to his advances.

Which in hindsight, are him asking if he can hold her and asking what is wrong. She only ever shrugs, wanders off, and does her own thing. Jon feels as if he may have done something that could have done this. So he tries to recite everything he has done the last four days as to make sure he hasn’t offended her.

He loves Sansa, the last thing he wanted was for her to be angry. Even if mother says it is normal for a couple to fight- her and father do it all the time. He frowns at the thought. His mother may have tried to pass it off as a jest.

But he know’s she’s in pain the longer she stays in Kings Landing. It’s odd, he thinks, that he cares more for a woman who never birthed him than a man who lied with his mother. A man who he is actually related to.

In all honesty, if given the choice, he would choose his mother. If it ever came down to it. His thoughts are interrupted when Sansa enters their chamber, a large smile on her face, and a patch of lemon cakes stacked high on a platter.

Jon cannot tell if she is excited about her new found pound of lemon cakes or if she is ready to explain something to him. Perhaps both? When she sets the platter down she is quick to hold him, wrapping her arms tightly around him and kissing his cheek.

Jons snickers. “What is it?” He manages to utter out. Confusion lacing his octaves.

She pulls back, strands of sunlight illuminated upon her waves of copper. The locks almost lit aflame in the light. And he has to wonder why it is he who is named the fire and she the ice when it is obvious the flames obviously have chosen her in the end.

And the ice him.

“I spoke with the maester.” She hums, a thumb rubbing on his cheek. “I am with child.” Something in him bursts, a bright ray of sunshine flooding through him. He does not ask questions, only tugs her closer and kisses her.

His heart thumping faster than it ever has. He was going to be a father, and Sansa a mother. Father and mother. Mother and father. He smiles into the kiss and she giggles.

 

* * *

 

It is a boy. A small, beautiful, little boy. Jon watches in adoration as she brings the child to her breast, smiling fondly at the bundle in her arms. Having been utterly, irrevocably in love with their son. Jon settles down beside her, smoothing a hand over the child’s head. “What do you wish to name him?” He questions, Sansa looks up at him, a small smile on her lips.

For she lies glistening in sweat and he hopes peace, for hearing the pain in the halls was enough and he felt if the Gods made her suffer more, than the Gods were cruel. Reaching down he gives her a kiss, savoring the taste before her takes anymore.

“I do not know…” She looks at the boy, a sweet beam caressing her lips. “He looks like you.” She hums. He shakes his head.

“He has your hair.” Jon doesn’t know of the eyes, but the copper curls are enough to have him smirk. And it hits him. “Robb.” He murmurs. Sansa looks up at him, a large smile gracing her lips. He knew she liked the name, loved it even. Jon knew his father was expecting a name of Targaryen lineage. But he couldn't give the time of day to care. 

If Sansa liked the name he just proposed, they would keep it. And he was almost certain she loved the name. 

“I love it." She murmurs. Bringing her gaze back down the child in her arms. Jon brings himself close, settling himself upon the bed beside her to get a better look at the child, when he opens his eyes he sighs. Tully blue. He knew they would be Tully blue. 

Mother would be pleased. She adored Sansa's eye color and hair. 

 

* * *

 

Sansa had never expected this. Far from it. But Jon could not be the heir to Dorne, he was not Dornish. However it had still begged her to answer the question whenever it rose. And today it was answered.

Aegon had been wed to Rhaenys, and they were to be sent to Dorne by next moon. Which meant Jon would be King. Sansa does not know how to act. She feels guilty almost, as if Rhaenys and Aegon were made for the throne and she and Jon were made for nothing.

Perhaps happiness, and that was enough. She didn’t want to be Queen. Jon didn’t want to be King. He exclaims that to his father, who doesn’t listen and claims Jon is the only choice. For he is not Dornish, has a wife, and already has a son.

Which to the current King’s digression, had a Northern name. He was less than happy about it, but he didn’t fight them on it. The man must have thought it enough for his son to have a Northern name.

Sansa sighs, watching Robb as he plays with the wooden soldier in his hands, his other filled with a wolf. She smiles, watching as the little thing coos in her direction and begins to wobble towards her. Leaning down she lifts her child.

Slobber dripping from his lips she wipes it with a nearby cloth. She remembers the moment Robb himself met the child. Nearly crying at the mention of the child’s name. She’s never seen Robb cry and thought it almost amusing- however it was all the more heartwarming.

And her son bonded with the short time he visited. Arya feigned annoyance upon learning the name, claiming Sansa should have named him Arya. Sansa had merely rolled her eyes and shook her head; and Elia?

Elia may have adored him more than her own mother. Always taking the afternoon to coddle the child with gifts and sweets, and today was no different. Elia is quick to enter her bedchamber, a large smile gracing her lips when Robb see’s her.

His little legs kicking to go and run towards his grandmother. Sansa permits it, setting him down so he may wobble towards her. Elia laughs, picking him up with a garnished beam. “Oh, hello little Robb.” She coo’s, bringing him close. Sansa smiles.

“My Queen.” Sansa speaks, standing before giving a short curtsey. Elia frowns.

“Now.” She begins. “What have I said of calling me that? I am your good mother, to you I am Elia.” Sansa simpers, nodding. Elia scans the room, now looking to her in query. “Where is Jon?”

Sansa frowns. “Speaking with his grace, the King.” The man never offered that she call him Rhaegar. She hadn’t expected him to. She wonders how two different people such as Elia and the King got along as they did.

Elia shakes her head. “No doubt to argue, again.” Sansa shifts, nodding. “That boy.” Elia sighs, pulling Robb close and kissing his forehead. Sansa squirms and Elia offers a lifted brow. “Jon is just as any of my children.” She admonishes. As if she already knew what Sansa was going to ask. “I am glad he will take the throne. In all honesty, I prefer it this way. Aegon has never been fit to rule and Rhaenys has always loved Dorne more so than Kings Landing.”

Sansa nods, clasping her hands together. “Do you think Jon will make a good King?” Elia nods eagerly.

“He may not know it yet, but he is kind and fair, he will do the Kingdom just. I might even say give it peace. His father hasn’t managed that much ever since he took the throne. He may not be mad, but there are times where he is a dolt.” Sansa gasps. She’s never heard someone speak so openly about the man.

But she supposes Elia has a right to it. Just as Sansa does of Jon. And her brothers- which she feels lucky about. The joint of them all shared a wellfare of stories all the more stupid than the last.

Elia saunters forward, resting the child in Sansa’s arms. For he had begin to whine for his mother. “And you, my dear girl, will make a wonderful Queen.” She smiles down at her. Sansa blushing. “But, do not be like me. Do not let your King bully you around, do you understand?”

Sansa immediately knows of what she speaks of. How Rhaegar did as he pleased, name a woman not his wife the Queen and Love and Beauty. Sansa does not know how she would react to Jon naming someone other than her that.

Likely cry. And wonder what she has done wrong. And while she is glad Jon is the outcome of something so horrible, Elia deserved better. She was too kind for the dragon. She was the sun and even the wings of such a large beast would never carry him to her.

Sansa nods at the question. “Of course, Elia.”

 

* * *

 

Jon leans into Sansa, his Queen, hand lied flat on her stomach. Their third child soon to come into this world. Robb sits at the end of their bed, reading, floppy curls of copper and bright Tully blue eyes gleaming in the sunlight.

And their daughter, Elia, sits atop Jon, for he lies on his stomach so she may brush his hair with her new comb. “Do you think it will be a boy or girl?” Jon finally asks, Sansa tearing her attention away from her son, who looks at his father as well.

He was seven now, a boy who thought himself grown. Jon laughs nearly every time the boy claims he is grown and take the throne now. And Elia- she laughs with him. Even if she does not understand at her young age of four. Sansa lies her hand on his. “I believe it will be a boy.” She hums. Jon smirks, burrowing his face into the crook of her neck. “And that we will name him…” She waits for him to finish. Jon shakes his head.

He thought they would be going in order. She named their son, he named their daughter, it was her turn again. “I do not know.” He mutters.

“Well, the was hardly useful.” Sansa leans down, kissing the top of his head. He snickers into her skin, smelling of lemon and honey. He wonders if he will ever get sick of her scent? Likely never. It was much too sweet of ever dislike.

And he could never imagine disliking anything she did, smelt of and said. “What about Brandon?” Sansa shakes her head.

“My brother is named that, and it’s overused. Like Aegon.” She huffs. He nods. She wasn’t wrong. He just thought she might like the sentiment.

“Alright-”

Robb squirms in between them. “Robb.” He chirps. “Name him Robb.” Sansa laughs, Elia giving her older brother a frown.

“But that’s your name.” Elia murmurs. Sansa nods.

Streaming her fingers through the curls. “Your sister is correct little one.” He frowns, rolling away as if he’d been hit with a sword. Jon rolls his eyes. Their son acts the same after the very man he was named after.

“What about Torrhen?” Jon sits up, if only a little, looking down at her. “Or perhaps Edric?” Sansa beams.

“Those are perfect.” Sansa wraps a hand about his neck and brings him down for a kiss. Both children gasping in disgust.

They laugh.


	16. Protect You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thickskinandelasticheart asked: Prompt 2: Sansa protecting Jon!

***

***

The screaming is all one large mush, she cannot hear the world around her, let alone the children beside her as they scream. They should not have arrived for some time. The Lannister men thrash at those around her and she does her best to keep those behind her safe.

A large shield drafted in front of her. She looks around in a haze, finding Jon far off, half-way across the courtyard. Fighting off at least four men. Tormund seems to have fallen, not dead, but seriously injured.

Davos- she does not know where the man is. Not until he is next to her, defending the children as well. Her heart is thumping wildly, her eyes wide as another man hits at the shield and another song of screeches sing behind her.

In a hurry she looks back across the yard, finding Jon falling to the mud, a loud grunt ushering from his lips. In a melting cascade of fret, and an absolution without thought she leaves her spot. Bashing a man’s face with the metal of her shield the best way she know’s how. Demanding that Brienne stay with the children and defend them.

She would have argued if they were not caught in the middle of a siege. With a groan the man she has just bloodied falls to the floor, holding his face in pain. Hurriedly, she picks up a blade from his tightly sealed hands and marches forward.

Her heart furiously strained. She could not lose him.

 

* * *

 

The shouts of dying men are deafening, as is the thumping of his heart, where the trudge of fire wells in his blood and boils at his skin. A spray of dragons fire skimming his armor as he swings the Valyrian steel towards one of the many men attempting to take his head.

Slashing the man’s throat open he looks about urgently, fingers twitching upon finding Sansa far from him. Holding a shield as a Lannister pounds at it, four children hidden behind her in fright. He grits his teeth, intending to march forth, but is stopped by a group of men.

He grounds his position, intent on getting to her before a man may do what he wishes and kill her. It would please Cersei to hear of the daughter of Winterfell’s death. More so if she had heard of more than just her blood hitting the snow.

He had to get to her, and it only eased his nerves a little to find Brienne at her side. For now he might have to focus on the men before him. With a breathful of hot air he swings at them, managing to cut through one man before the rest.

It happens in a blur, the blade against his chest that has him falling. And it’s the battle for Winterfell all over again, a man slamming his sword against his own in an attempt to draw more blood. Of course, he is not as filthy as he had been then.

And the man is close in doing so, that is until a blade pierces through his chest, the man falling to his side. Sansa stands, wide eyed, hand trembling as she stares at the sword in hand. Jon is quick to stand and pull her behind him, muttering a thanks.

He would have to do more than just say his relief later. Once more, he owes her his life.


	17. Safe and Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> solarbellamy asked: hi, do you think you could write something where theon and sansa never escape from ramsay during the s5 finale but Jon is still brought back and decides to raise an army to free his sister from the boltons (sorry if that makes no sense)? thank you!!
> 
> Warning: Mentions of rape and abuse.

***

***

Sansa would cry, hold herself tight until the tears froze to her cheeks, and her lips swelled in cracks of blood. But she could not cry, for the water was already ice stuck to her eyes and she no longer knows how it feels to be alive.

To no longer have the ability to feel her surroundings as she should. Theon is dead, her last line of defense coiled away from her and kept under a large dome of dragon glass and valyrian steel. Instead all she can do is curl up, cornered furthest from the door-

Sansa shouldn’t have attempted her escape, she should have kept to herself in her lonesome tower. All she wanted was to leave this death trap, this hell were the devils played with her mind and body.

To find home.

And home was at the Wall, where her bastard half-brother stood as reigning lord commander, a man who could protect her. In the end even she could not manage her way to the Wall and now she is in trouble. Ramsay had claimed he did not blame her for Myranda’s death- but she knew she would be punished for it either way. A hushed whimper exits her lips, stinging the aggravated skin until it could have bled once more.

Theon had died for her. Had gave himself away and claimed he had tried to take Sansa away despite her not wanting to leave. That he had stopped Myranda by throwing her off the tower so he may whisk Sansa away. Lady Bolton; she shivers at the name. This was supposed to be her home. Not her cage, her torment, her hell. It was not supposed to be where those she loved died and fell into the earth with nowhere to go.

Pulling her hands to her chest she clenches, her lungs collapsing on her at the worse of times, struggling for breath when she hears her door creak. Forcing herself the best she could into the wall, she hiccups, closes her eyes and feels as if she may die tonight.

Which may be a sweet release, something she might actually find preferable than kept trapped in this shamble one might call marriage by law.

“Sansa?” The voice is eerily sick, curling at the end that has her toes pinching into the blankets. She refuses to look, but she can feel him, his cold demeanor and how he scans over her body as if she were a slab of meat. “Look at me.” He growls with impatience.

Sansa opens her eyes hesitantly, finding Ramsay at her doorway, a hound at his side. Immediately she feels the urge to run, to jump out the window and end herself before the canine can.

Her lip quivers, eyes welling with water and she doesn’t feel all the frozen anymore. More afraid than anything. “My sweet, darling wife.” He coo’s, Ramsay sauntering towards her; not before he closes the door behind him.

For himself or her? She does not know. She does not care- he didn’t need to hide what he did. The entire keep knew of his sick little head. And none did anything to stop it. She flinches when he stands before her, reaching forch and lifting her chin upwards with a delicate twist.

Her eyes waver before him, looking between him and the hound that stares, just stares. Looking as if she might be his next meal. And it wouldn’t surprise her if she happened to be. Ramsay loved feeding his hounds human flesh.

He leans forward, kissing her forehead. “Oh, dear Sansa.” He hums. “You must be frightened.” She doesn’t respond, only swallows the flat lump slinking in her throat. “I know it is not your fault.” The way he says it, all knowing and sweetly adverted in an otherwise calm tone has her shaking.

_He knew._

Ramsay knew her plans of leaving him and this wretched family. Something in his eyes darken and she feels like sinking into the wall.

He is much quicker than she thought he’d be, which his mouth biting at her own before he smooths her over, flattening her against the bed, rolling atop her.

She feels like she’s suffocating. Was this her punishment? Surely not? He does this to her all the time, he takes her, rough and manhandled until she is bruised and cannot walk. He makes certain she cannot walk. With a smile on his face he forces her to do so, until she is tremoring and falling to her knees.

Sansa does her best not to fight back- less she want’s to be hurt more than she will be. And when he pulls away, shifting her night trail up her thighs and playing with the knot of his laces he murmurs “I need a son Sansa, where is my son.”

Something inside her breaks. And she doesn’t know how. Sansa thought she had already broke the night of their wedding.

The night is filled with shrill screams and deaf hearings.

 

* * *

 

 

  
He’s coming for her.

That’s all she can think of as she stares down at her palms, grim and blood sitting atop her skin. Jon is coming for her, he has declared it himself, leaving the Night’s Watch to go and find his dear sister. That is what it says in Littlefinger’s letter- she hardly believes it. Not because she thought it impossible for Jon to care for her, even a little, but because she no longer trusted the snake who names himself a mockingbird.

However, he offers his services. To help the young man leading an army to Winterfell. She re-reads the letter over and over, until her eyes hurt to do so and she feels as if she might have memorized the entirety of it. A small, feeble woman had given her the letter, a woman loyal to lord Baelish. A whore, no less. No one seemed to care about her presence and that was enough for Sansa.

Lightly, she dances her fingers over the parchment, black and cream implemented deeply in mind. And the words-

“Your brother comes for you, with an army of two thousand and a giant.”

The words look false, a giant? Were those even real? Apparently Jon has accepted Littlefinger’s help, offering the Knights of the Vale- and Ramsay has no clue as to how many men Jon has or who is helping him. She starts when the door snaps open, she stands, throwing the letter into the grate. Where it shrivels up and dies with her heart- for she know’s what is to happen if that is who she believes it to be.

Turning on her heel she freezes, Ramsay in the doorway. He looks utterly furious, for he smiles, his head cocked to the side. What has she done now?

“Have you heard, my wife?” She watches him carefully, taking a full three steps for his every one. “Your bastard comes for you.” Sansa doesn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified.

Thrilled for the confusion in his wide eyes or the terrified for what is about to happen. Again, she keeps to herself, lips sealed shut. It is then, when he surges forward, she sees the blood on his chest and hands. He pauses, following her line of sight before smiling curtly. “Do not worry, it is not my blood.” Her throat is caught and when she is forced against the wall she cries out for her brother to help her.

Except it never leaves her, no, but it sings within her heart in a small and bitter hope.

She needed a savior and perhaps Jon is just that?

 

* * *

 

  
She is kept in her chambers when Ramsay leaves, but the battle following into Winterfell’s gates quickly enough. Sansa can practically feel Winterfell shake with her heart and she’s banging on the doors.

But no one is there. Only herself and large door, heavy enough to keep her from pushing it down. And so she sits, holds herself and prays for a man who she hasn’t seen since she was a but a child of three and ten. It feels like hours, but she can hear it, her name called throughout the keep and she screams back.

Pounds against the door, desperate to gather anyone's attention. Her throat runs dry by the time the door is shoved down and she is rushed to the back of the chamber. And her heart lightens, filled with light upon seeing the sigil that is a Dire Wolf, beautiful and glorious and-

She has to restrain herself from sobbing out. Her mouth quivering at the sight. Crimson eyes lie upon her, her skin crawling at the sight, a homely warmth carving her from the inside out. Was she finally safe?

The world she’s been kept in flashes, dark eyes meeting her own and something kin to winter holds her still. The man before her, he is no longer the bastard she had ignored here in Winterfell. He is older. War strained. Drenched in that of torrid fury and lopsided affection- all directed towards her.

His eyes lighten at the sight of her, not longer the pitch of the night but a soft tone of adoration and freedom, and he freezes in the doorway even as the wolf comes to her himself, licking at her fingers. Ramsay is dead. That is what she know’s, what she feels. His presence nothing but a bitter and harsh memory.

And he mutters it as if the Gods themselves have sent him to a dream. “Sansa?” Hesitant, she nods, taking a small step forward. Unsure of what she should do.

However, her heart pounds, an overwhelming sense of security clutches at her chest. Its as if it were routine, a muscle movement that tugs her towards him and has her wrapping her arms around his dirtied form. She thinks her heart might collapse, that she might as well, faint in his arms knowing the extent he has gone for her life to be safely kept. For she is tired, so tired, and she wants to hold him.

To hold him for forever.

He is caked in mud and blood, filthy to the very extent that by all means she should be disgusted. But by the gods, he is here, he is holding her- lifting her from the ground in such a tight squeeze she forgot what if felt like to be loved through touch.

Nuzzling her nose into his neck she sighs, souse trailing down her cheeks the way dirt does his. Soft sobs falling from her lips as she utters his name over and over until it feels as if she were in a dream; but his arms keep her awake.

_Jon._

Her Jon has saved her.

His name comes in rasps through her breath. "Jon." She tests it, the name foreign to her tongue but gratefully accepted. Her nails dig into the shoulders of his back, clinging to him as if she might be torn away from him and be forced back into her bed in traitorous and labored breaths. Only to wake in the dark and find this to be nothing but a nightmare. And a wistful dream of hope and song.

"Your safe now." He gasps into her shoulder. "Your safe and sound."


	18. Comfort for my Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gottagofastbitch asked: Can you do one where sansa sees jons scars amd kisses them. Smut preferable. I know im sending like 100 requests but i NEED this.
> 
> I did not add smut, but I wrote the kisses and made it awkward. Because why not?

***

***

Sansa hadn’t meant to enter as she had, nor had she expected to see what stood before her. She had mistaken his grunts for her entrance, waltzing into his chambers without a second thought. Truly, it was a mistake and immediately felt her mouth drop open.

Jon stills upon the sight of her, having only put on breeches, the rest naked to the cold air of Winterfell. Of course, his boots were on, he obviously had been in the middle of dressing for the day. Sansa had allowed him to sleep in, for he had stayed up all night helping her with ledgers and complaints even as he had dealt with the exact same thing that same day.

From it’s original source.

Sansa had told him to go rest but he wouldn’t leave her alone. She thought it kind and unnecessary. So she had told the household to not bother him- to bring their problems to her. When she had been told he had awoken she decided to see if he were willing to help train the new recruits for Winterfell’s guard.

She would have Brienne do it, but the men are afraid of her. Not that Sansa blames them. She is a frightful woman when angered. Sansa has seen it firsthand. With a soft gasp she mutters an apology. However she doesn’t look away. It isn’t his form that strains her heart, nor the bruises or muscle, but the scars lining his chest. Each one deeper than the last.

She cannot seem to steal her eyes away, skimming his skin with sympathy. Sana has her fair share of scars, but none have killed her, and to see them now. In the light; it hurts her almost as much as her own.

It is terribly rude to stare, and it must not make him feel all that comfortable, but they’re deep and jagged and she feels her stomach twist at the sight. Who would do this to someone? Who would take a knife and plunge it so deep it chars the flesh beyond comprehension?

Jon is a good man, and to visibly see what had taken his life, his breath, the color from his face has her pained all the same from whence he told her of it all; perhaps worse. Evidence is damning and it contorts her mind into something coiled and her heart thumps wildly in fury.

He’s protected her time and time again. And she has yet to do the same. Jon looks away from her, reaching for his doublet when she asks “Does it hurt?”

Jon halts, gazing back at her with a frown. Sansa asked out of pure emotion, without thought of how that might hurt him. The guilt rises with the question.

“Sometimes.” He murmurs. Jon does not look down at the scars, nor does he touch them, knowing full well of what she speaks of. Sansa frowns with him, her eyes doleful as she folds her arms.

Tilting her head, she slowly makes her way towards him. “Is there a way to stop the pain?” Jon shakes his head no. Sansa had never been able to wrap her mind around him. Jon coming back from the dead. Never having seen the effects of what had happened to him.

Now? Now it is more real than it is a nightmare.

She supposes those two are the same thing. Because life is a nightmare. With a small quiver in his lip she can tell he wishes to change the subject. And does so without warning.

“You did not have to let me sleep.” He says calmly, his voice dry as he about tugs the doublet about his body. Sansa stops his ministrations with a soft hand to his bicep, eyes still on the jagged marks that kiss his skin.

It’s almost as if there is a pattern. They lead from his abdomen up to his chest, her fingers twitch at the sight. “You needed it.” She utters, tearing her eyes away from his chest to look him in the eyes- those dark, dark eyes.

Sometimes she thinks she may fall in them and never crawl out. The night sky hosted in the ink he observes the world in. Her hand leaves his arm, draping over his cheek with a soothing touch. Her thumb rubbing softly against the scruff of his beard.

He nearly leans into her touch, the tranquillity between the two of them a rare thing. Sansa leans forward, holding him close. “I am sorry.” It a delicate hum that has him caving into her, his arms wrapping about her lithe form in a desperate need for comfort.

Has he never spoken of it to anybody? Has he not shown his wounds in the hopes he might feel better? Likely not. She would not show her own, given the choice, and she doubts he would as well.

“For what?” He answers, the husk of his tone deep and burrowed within the sanction of her hair. Squeezing her eyes shut she breathes deeply.

Sansa sighs- nearly whimpers. “For not protecting you.” Jon pulls back, if only a little, a sad little expression claiming his features. He shakes his head, eyes large and pitiful.

Her heart flutters, it is strange and she feels the guilt climb once more. “Sansa, it is not your job to protect me.” Sansa disagrees, she should keep him safe the way he does her.

Sansa doesn’t know how to responds, but her hands find their way to his torso, a small finger almost indenting the scar on his chest and he flinches. Sansa pulls her hands back, looking back down to the trudges of sealed wounds battered against him.

They almost reminded her when they were children, of how when Arya or Rickon were wild they’d scrape a knee or open an old wound. The maester would easily patch it, but the pain never seemed to dissipate until mother would kiss it away.

Jon has never had a mother, he has never had someone who cares about him enough kiss the pain away. Sansa rears her attention to the quirk of his brow, planting a soft kiss to the scar there. It tingles on her lips and before Jon can ask what she is doing she is lowering herself, bringing her lips to the wound upon his chest.

He shudders when her mouth blooms upon himself, moving further down, each scar receiving a loving peck. Her heart is pounding as she reaches further down and Jon finally asks what it is she is doing.

Sansa looks up at him, giving a soft smile. “I’m kissing the pain away.” His lips slant open, unexpected and warm she pulls herself back, nearing his abdomen. Trailing the kisses more upon his body rather the scars, a pang of want reaching her thoughts- she should not feel such a way he is in pain, but she cannot help it. Not with her mouth skimming and pressing against his body. Jon seemingly stutters under his breath before pulling away all the while tugging her back up to her feet.

She looks at him confused. Had she done something wrong? That was a stupid question. Of course she did something wrong. Kissing your brothers bare chest was far from sisterly- nor appropriate.

“We must…” He trails, having seemingly thought of something to say only to lose the words. Sansa leans forward.

“We must what?” She questions. “I have already dealt with a matter of issues, today should be fairly open.” Jon swallows thickly, and Sansa is back to lowering herself, issuing another soft kiss, prideful in the way he heaves once her lips come into contact.

“Sansa.” He warns. She gives another peck, and he grunts. Bringing her back up, this time keeping his hands planted firmly on her shoulders. She sighs. “You are my sister.” He whispers.

Sansa brings her palm to the back of his neck. “I was simply ensuring the scars be healed. As mother did mine.” He shakes his head.

“That is different and you know it.” Sansa about interjects but is interrupted when he pulls away and begins to button his leather boiled doublet. “We have a council meeting, if I remember correctly.” His voice is shaky as she watches him continue to dress.

“Yes, we do.” She responds, watching a moment longer before she turns and calls to him “I will see to it that they are ready to discuss the shortage of crops- and Kings Landing.” Sansa may not see it, but she can feel him nod. Quickly, she scurries out of the chamber.

He was right. That was different and wrong. And she should not have done it.

 


	19. We Bleed the Same (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for gottagofastbitch: number 37: "I shouldn't love you." 
> 
> Smut warning. I'm a little bit rusty, and I wrote this in like twenty minutes, so I apologize. 
> 
> I tried.

***

***

Jon frowns, leaning into his seat with an insatiable desire to run himself through with long claw. Aimlessly, he gawks at the empty hall, empty chairs with empty souls filling them. With a slow blink he sighs, the large chamber doors swinging open.

Ser Davos stops mid-way through his entrance. His brows now furrowed once his attention lands on the King, who drowns himself in ale rather than wine and dry venison. With no flavor to make up for the way it drags about his tongue.

Carefully, Davos saunters towards Jon, who gives him little to no attention. “Your Grace.” He speaks, loud and broad, only to see the frown deepen. Jon can see the way Davos licks his lips and know’s he will speak up again. As always. “Your Grace, I believe lady Sansa is looking for you.”

The man, older than Jon by a good twenty years, looks about ready to twiddle his thumbs. The way Sam would, when he was nervous or confused. Jon finally gives him his attention, lifting a brow. “She is, now?” That didn’t surprise him.

But he was in no mood to see her- their last fight reaching a blaring accusation; Sansa blatantly claiming she did not trust him. That she did not trust anyone. Jon wanted to understand, truly, he did.

However, it was hard enough to hear her say such a thing. After everything he has done? Taking back Winterfell, giving her all the more titles and power than any man could dream of, she was nearly untouchable and she didn’t trust him? It hurt.

A lot more than he was willing to admit.

Davos sighs. “I heard, you know.” He claims, coming in close as to gain Jon’s absolute attention. “And I can see the guilt the lady holds, I am certain she wishes to apologize.” That’s the problem. She shouldn’t have to.

Sansa has been through enough, she did not need a full grown man sulking about her comment and ignoring her half the day. With short scowls and soft frowns. The lady of Winterfell deserved better than that.

Yet, he could not help the agony welling deep inside his chest. He had every right not to trust her, after being hurt the way he had, murdered by his own men, betrayed by those he trusts; and she is the one who does not trust him?

It was maddening to think after all that he has done, to not only protect her but earn that credence of her acceptance but care- and then to have it taken from him within the blink of an eye, a growl on her lips in defense had him choking on the very air he breathed.

And a part of thinks it is not just because of what she has been through, but what she has been raised to think of him as. A bastard willing to take all that the Starks hold dear, simply because he did not have a mother.

The small part of him whispered that his thoughts are false, of course, that did not stop the continuity of it all. The dread he recalled swirled inside until he felt he might burst, smash something to bits until it was just as broken as he.

Jon used to be great at keeping his emotions well hidden, but when he came back, it was a rush of hot blooded anger and a turmoil he had no control over. Every war he has fought, he has attempted to keep at least some of the enemies men alive, for they only fought for what they thought was right-

The battle of Winterfell had reached in and tore at the monster balled inside his chest. He had killed as many as he could get his hands on, not only for Rickon, but for Sansa. Oh, all of it was for Sansa. He nearly murdered a man for her.

Took the life from the waste he is, was, his fingers bruised and bloody just as his face was. It still rises a fury in him, to think of Ramsay Bolton. Has his chest clenched in a formidable ire that he didn’t think possible for him to hold.

And he wants to hit him all over again, and to not stop, even as he sees Sansa. Even if he know’s it is her’s, that man’s life, that it belongs to her now the way he held hers in his hands. Jon wished he had kept to the red that spurred in his vision until the man was nothing but a puddle in the mud.

But he had shaded blue upon her stare, and he realized the monster he had become in that moment. Ramsay had been hers to kill, not Jon’s. No matter how angry he was.

Davos, he takes away Jon’s mug before he can take another sip of stale ale. “Your grace, I would think it appropriate you go find her. She has yet to leave her bedchamber.” Go find the woman who does not trust him enough to keep a country together?

Find the very woman who has told him time and time again he is a fool? The same woman who had spoken to Littlefinger than him over an easily solved issue taking place in White Harbor? Yes, he should do that, less he wants to drown himself in the cheapest of ales and mead, and then soak himself in cold water.

So he may feel just as frozen as she is.

Jon stands, abrupt and with a grunt. “Very well.” He gives Davos a dark look, one that exclaims the pure pique that now swallows him whole. Davos may now regret his words. The both of them knew he would never hurt Sansa, not physically and Jon believes in no other way either.

But Jon was not Jon, he was the abomination that Sansa could not place her trust in as she did so with another sort of monster, whose smile made him crawl in defeat.

 

* * *

 

Sansa starts when a knock on her door sounds, as ominous as thunder of the narrow sea. Her fingers curve into the needle she now works with, the thread slipping as she allows entrance for whomever stands at her door.

Who she know’s is Jon. Sansa stands when he enters, a deep curtsey that has the wool of blue and grey pooling around her in a large circle. Jon, he huffs, and she immediately stands. Sansa is well aware of how he despises it when she bows- but it is impolite not to do so when a King is in your presence.

Jon straightens his shoulders. “Why were you looking for me?” He asks after a beat, and Sansa’s mouth slants open in ready response. But nothing comes out.

For she now notices the blood, how it crowns his lower lip and jaw. When had that gotten there? In a worry filled fret Sansa turns her back to him, searching for a cloth. Jon about speaks again but she is before him, silencing any sort of protest with the dab of her forefinger draped in cotton.

Jon startles, leaning back almost, but seems to have been sealed to the floor as she continues the ministrations. With an easy exhale Sansa decides now she may answer. It wouldn’t do her any good to ask how he had hurt himself, he’d only respond with an angry grunt.

For what she had told him earlier the other day was wrong, adverse, and something inside her had coiled deep and sad. “I wished to speak to you.” He doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes on the wall behind her rather than the copper of her hair.

A brilliant shine, smoothing it down to a silk plaster washing down her shoulders. Jon hisses when she drags the cotton, finding the wound and where the blood came from. The cut was much deeper than she had thought it would have been. Again, she wonders how exactly he had hurt himself? Did he accidentally bite his lip? “I wanted to apologize.” She murmurs, trailing the cloth in hand into the thick of his beard. Finding that there is no more blood there she pulls back.

Jon stands stiff, rigid in something kin to annoyance. “Apologize?” His voice wavers. “For what?” It’s almost domineering. And Sansa will admit, she deserves it. To even suggest she proceeded Littlefinger over Jon was low, even for her.

She can see he is trying to be strong, to not let it get to him, but it has. And it’s deep inside, burrowed in his flesh the way his scars have healed to him. Searing him to a crisp with every step he has ever taken. Sansa tip toe’s away, settling the now bloodied rag down next to her knitting. A doublet she has been making for Jon the past two weeks. She has yet to make such a thing, so it has taken longer than she has wanted it to.

Turning to him, she is met with eyes so dark they almost seem endless. Host to everything he feels. When they had been younger it was a soft stare than hid everything, but this new Jon, he displayed it all for everyone to see. And that included Sansa.

“For what I said to you. You were undeserving of such treatment.” Sansa folds her hands together, in a fashion her mother once used. It is...Jon riles her like no other, as she is sure she does him. And there are subjects overlooking a certain matter has had her scream horrible things at him.

It has only grown worse upon, with subtlety, recognizing her feelings for him. She had kept them hidden, almost nonexistent. For a sister does not feel about a brother the way she does- not unless she happened to be a dragon or a lion. She is not, however, for she is a wolf.

The daughter of Winterfell. Of the North and it’s people. Not some incestuous maiden who wishes for her brother’s comfort, despite just how much she actually does. And with all the mention of half; only sharing a father, his mother some tavern slut or fisherman's wife, it makes it all the easier to see him as something more.

It confuses her, angers her, has her sad all at once. For she is not Cersei, she is not a mad dragon, she is a wolf maiden. Built from snow and love, a caring family that had never pushed her to the extent of disparity she is now seemingly at.

And she has to wonder why lord Baelish continuously pushes her to that breaking point. It wasn’t that he had personally lead her to Jon, but it did not help with him always exclaiming Jon’s parentage.

There are times when she wonders if he truly is her brother at all. For father would never leave mothers bed, even if he loved another early on. He was honorable, and while that honor had killed him, it also kept the trust of those around him.

If he had had enough to keep mothers after bringing home a bastard, whose mother he’s never named aloud, then surely it must be a lie? Sansa has already sent those who now work under her name to find his mother or any sign of her.

It was selfish, for why she did it, to hold him without guilt- but it would clear much of her query surrounding his mother and her father. Jon narrows his eyes. “I didn’t?” Sansa grimaces at the tone. He was certainly not happy, and she did not blame him. She has pushed him too far. “I thought I was deserving of everything, even my death.” He spits.

Sansa can see it, the way he visibly restrains himself in desperation. He feels too much, everything a sore nerve to prod and poke at. And it is Sansa who has only widened the wound.

“I was...I was wrong, angry, you did not deserve any of it Jon.” Sansa declares. “I apologize, I am horrible and a monster.” She reaches out to him and he flinches back. This was her fault. It repeats in mind as she continues to speak. “You do not have to accept my apology, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am. I should never had said it, and I regretted it the moment it came out.” Jon shakes his head.

He pinches the bridge of his nose before he says “You do this, time and time again, Sansa. Why do you push me away?” He looks at her, with the same gaze that has her knees weak and heart pounding. “Why do you say it at all? I know I anger you, we get into fights nearly every day, but to say that?” He drifts, eyes darting to the floor.

Sansa cannot comprehend the pain she has put him through, for he looks to be a shell of what he had once been only three days ago. She was a monster. She has become what Cersei and those who have tormented her made themselves.

“What do I have to do to prove to you I am not out to hurt you? Do I have to kill another? Do I need to start a war? Must I burn those around us to keep you close?” Sansa’s mouth gapes open.

Shaking her head, she moves forward, and he pulls away once more. He jaw ticks, his brows furrowed and she wonders what will happen if she allows him to speak his fury.

“Tell me!” He shouts.

Sansa flinches. She’s heard him shout, scream, yell; yet the sheer ferocity of it has her shaking. How could she do this? Claim he was not worthy of her trust? Not worthy of her love? Not worthy to speak to her, to claim he was only here to take what he has always wanted. Winterfell.

She is a cruel woman. A cruel woman indeed.

Sansa, she doesn’t know how to respond, sadly enough. And feels her lips tremble. “I…” Her finger clutch to the bountiful wave of her skirts. “I do not know.” Something takes him, dark and terrifying.

Even as the words leave she knows it is the wrong answer. But she doesn’t know how to respond. To his declaration of anguish.

“You do not know?” He questions, voice deep. “Whom should I take? What am I to do to keep your trust? I do not understand! Tell me, Sansa, I am at a loss.” Sansa takes a step forward, her hand about to palm his cheek.

He swats her hand away. “You needn’t do anything.” It’s a whisper, for she is terrified of herself. Of what might come out next. Jon lifts a brow.

“Nothing?” She nods. “Nothing...I needn’t do anything, yet I have done everything to keep-”

“I am so sorry.” Sansa interrupts. “I know what I said was wrong, I was furious, at myself and at you.” Jon looks confused, however that does not halt the pain that crosses over his features.

“Yourself? Why? I thought I was the cause of everything?” There is scorn in that tone, and Sansa wonders if she should drown in it until he revives her? Wait for him to catch her before she even reached the ground.

She’d rather be the first to fall so he may hold her in his arms, than to never feel his embrace again. “Because.” Sansa says, for that is all she is willing to admit.

And it feels the same, the fight they had before this one. Where they spoke of marriage, Sansa was scared. Not because he had offered Sansa, but himself. To the Queen of dragons. Out of reflex she had parted the comment and directed it towards herself.

Starting a war out of thin air and an accusation that had them both breathing for air in the end. She had had the same response. ‘Because’.

Jon snarls out “Because what, Sansa?” It is him now who marches towards her, clasping his hands around her shoulders and giving a gentle shake. And she can’t help but notice, even in this fury of dragons flame, he is careful with her. No matter how far she has pushed. “Because of what you said, do you feel guilty now? Is it because I am not trustworthy? Is it because I am going to sell you off as some ‘brooding mare’? Or is it because you’d rather be in the Vale with Littlefinger, who has somehow earned your trust while I have been left in the dark? The same man who sold you to...To that monster!”

It feels as if his temper has seeped into her, for she bursts just as he has. “Because, you are mine!” She yells back. “Because I refuse to give you away to some Queen who demands it! Because you are all I have left!” Jon’s mouth his sealed in a tight line, as he processes her screeches. “Because I love you, _I love you when I should not._ And the thought of you leaving pains me deeply.”

It’s a soft mutter, and she wonders if he has heard it. They stay still for a moment, before his eyes widen, only a little that is. When his hands palm either side of her head she feels her heart shatter in pounding realization of what he is about to do.

He leans in, quick, swiftly pressing his lips to her own. A hot stir, unpracticed and slotted as he trips over his own lips. Sansa attempts to keep up, for he moves too fast, desperate, finding a taste that will sooth the pain she has caused him.

There is a broil in her abdomen, and it screams that what she is doing is filthy, disgusting, torrid in the eyes of the gods. Old and new. She pulls back. Breathing heavy. “This is wrong.” His eyes are hazy, as blurred as her own. “We shouldn’t.” It’s short of a gasp when he tugs her in, mouth hot against her neck.

She knows this is his chagrin, the depression, all of it- he is pouring all of it out into his actions. Sansa can feel it in the way his fingers press against the back of her head, the way his mouth sears her flesh, fraught in hunger.

For he breathes her in the way you do air. As if he is suffocating. “We should.” Jon mutters, mouth at the base of chest. Sansa sighs, leaning into his touch, finger threading through her hair and mouth desperate on her flesh.

Her hands skim their own way, through his dark curls, and the back of his arms. When his chin dips the curve of her gown, she lifts him back up. Slamming her mouth into his, opening it as to let him in. He wastes no time, tongue breeching as easily as his hands lower to the small of her back.

It is wrong. Jon is her brother- _Half._

A voice whispers in the back of her mind, a conniving reverberation that makes her delve deeper. Her tongue melding to his in a warring hold. He tastes good. Sansa pulls, twists, for he tastes of venison and ale; blood crusted to his lip only adds to it. A taste she’s never been quite fond of, not until now, where it is warm and pressed inside her mouth. Jon rears her towards the wall, enclosing his arms until she is squished and unable to move.

Sansa nearly gasps when he rides her skirts up, a hand having been placed before her bare thigh. Her plays with the hem of stockings, delicate to the touch even as he devours her. It is now she can feel the hardness brought up in his breeches. Rubbing against the side of her thigh. Sansa hums into him, desperate and longing. Something slows him and he draws back, and he is a sight.

Lips swollen and stained crimson, his eyes dark in lust, and she can only wrap her arms around him. “Do not stop.” She begs.

Jon seems to hesitate. “Are you certain?” Sansa bucks her hips towards him and he groans, holding back the moan ready to escape. Soon enough he has slipped a finger down, scooting away her shift to feel her. He presses against her, deep into the wall he gasps, engrossed with what lied between her thighs. “You are so wet.” He practically moans and Sansa cannot help but do so with him. His finger seeps in, entering her as his thumb rolls over her clit.

Sansa curves her body upwards, fingers stringing through his hair. His mouth is back to hers, pulling her in with the counter of ale- stiff and old it would seem. And yet she cannot get enough, she wants more, she wants all of him.

Spreading her legs further apart, her hand roams downwards and grasps at his wrist, moving him in a heavier lug. It has her humming into his throat, and it seems he has had enough. He is quick with the laces of his trousers, they come undone the moment she is brushed up further against the wall.

Both hands come to her hips, digging until his nails indent the flesh, it has her bucking into him again. Pure desire, it all rushes through her and she wants to be filled. With Jon, with her knight, she needs it. Jon is slow, generous, and enters with a guttural sound. Almost inhuman, more so than herself, when she hisses out at the expansion. The stretch hefty yet welcomed. She never thought she’d want this, not again, but with Jon it is welcomed.

When she is entirely filled, it feels as if there is no air for her lungs, for it takes it all out. Jon burrows his head into the crook of her neck, leaving open mouth kisses; a hand leaving her thigh once he has helped her wrap around him.

His hand is back on her, as if he needed to feel her, impatient with how he circles his thumb in heavy strokes. Sansa finds herself muttering his name, more so when he begins to move, jutting himself back and forth.

Fire spews deep inside, a viper curled and ready to spring as he digs into her. Her heart lags, jumps, heaves with the rest of her as she strains against him. The low vibrations of his grunts sticking to her, the way her wetness slinks down her thighs.

“You feel so good, Sansa.” He cranes his head near her ear, nipping. “Your cunt is so good.” The sudden brutality of his language as her thrusting into him, a long moan leaving her. “You like that?” He hums. “When I say cunt?”

Her legs warm with the blanch of her gut, a shiver crawling up her spine and the goose flesh that cloaks her arms. She nods into him, throat dry. "I love your cunt, Sansa.” He emphasizes, his left hand grounded into her thigh, hard enough to bruise. The other grinding with deft trawls. “It’s perfect, made for me.” Something high leaves her, and she would have been embarrassed if she weren’t already being rut against the wall of her chamber.

Skirts lied flat against her stomach, so Jon may plunge into her as he does. Nothing but the sound of heavy breath, the crackling in the hearth and skin upon skin.

“Do you agree? Do you think your cunt was made for me?” his thrusts are growing deeper, heavier, and the longer she waits the slower he takes.

Sansa nods. “Yes.” She chokes out, her voice bouncing with her body. She clenches around him, the very moment he digs his thumb the same time he allows himself to speed up, the pattern she’d found in him no longer there.

Rutting into her with little contempt.

Something warm sprawls out of her, she feels hot and cold all at once as if she were falling. Her legs tighten around his body and she moans out his name, over and over, clenching around him as her hips drag in relief. Holding onto him until he spills inside her.

They both still, catching their breath, and her chest flutters when he digs in deep so the wall may carry her and he can wrap his arms around her. Hold her close.

The both of them are silent, and Sansa expects to feel the disgust rise but it never does. Only complacent need. Sufficient love and what is granted to her. Jon sighs, pulls his head away from her neck, where a his beard has left a red rash.

“I apol-”

“Don’t.” Sansa says, her voice torn in exasperation. “Please, don’t say you regret it.” Jon frowns. Shaking his head in response.

“I do not.” He utters. “But I should have taken my time.” His hand leaves the juncture between her thighs, and she nearly whines at the disappearance. Sansa, with little thought, gives him a sloppy kiss. It would seem she has reopened the cut, but neither seem to care- she has yet to find out how he has hurt himself, not that she will bother to ask. 

When pulling back, she gives him a soft smile. “I am glad you did not.” Jon seems to look relieved. However, she does not. The guilt from two days prior, what she had said to him, it was terrible. “Jon...I am sorry. For what I said I mean, it-”

“I accept.” He leans in once more, forehead pressed to her own. “I love you.” She swells in adoration, endearment and it feels as if the world has finally listened to her prayers.

“I love you, too.”


	20. The Wolf Maiden and her Dragon (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cruyffsbeckenbauer asked: Prompt request then :) Was Sansa a little jealous of Jon? yes. Did Sansa secretly wish it had been her who the Northern houses had chosen as queen after she saved them? yes. Now she can have it all. The second the truth about Jon's birth comes out LF manages to turn the Northern lords against him. They declare her as queen. But she realizes she wants Jon Snow more than she would ever want a crown or anything else.
> 
> Smut warning. This is a bit long- and I mean long. It took me about an hour, and again, still really rusty. But I decided to do one more because I need to work on it for Winter Bird and Turn into the Noise. 
> 
> And obviously, back by popular demand, angry make-up sex. Enjoy!

***

***

Sansa in the past, she will admit, was a difficult girl. A dreary little thing who thought of songs as life and promises for her future. She was a dolt, to believe in fantasy as if it were prophecy directed towards her destiny. A small part of her is still that girl. Except this time, she did get what she wanted. A crown, Winterfell and a family. However, it did not come to her in the way she wished. While she had been envious of Jon and his new found status, she had never thought for him to go down this way.

She didn’t want it to happen. When she had been named Queen in the North she hadn’t thought of what would happen to Jon. Simply assuming he would be safe under her name; and she knew he did not mind being taken down from the throne. He didn’t want to be King and had smiled when she had been named as such.

A true smile, the sort that reached his eyes and shined the way the moon does.

But her intentions were never to have the Northern lords ask her to exile him, to banish him, and have him put in a cell for treason. For taking a seat that did not belong to him. Lyanna Mormont had voted against such behavior, Sansa was happy for that much.

But the rest? They all saw it as a betrayal, as if Jon knew who his parents were. But no one did, not until Bran and lord Howland Reed showed up at Winterfell’s gates and told everyone. Sansa had been in for quite a shock, as had Jon, who had refused to believe it until Sam had sent a letter from Old Town.

Having found evidence hidden from the world deep within it’s library. Lord Baelish had taken advantage of the situation, had pulled all the Northern lords against him, Sansa had thought that she could protect him once the crown of iron and steel was placed upon her head.

The same as her brothers. She had thought her authority would reign over what Littlefinger had planned. She was wrong. And now, she sits in deep anguish as Jon readies to leave Winterfell. Packing his belongings for the long trail to Kings Landing. Where he plans to meet his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen. Who is more than pleased to learn of family in the North.

For all the seven hells, he did not deserve this, and she felt ready to pull her hair out. She didn’t want him to leave, she truly didn’t, but with the lords fighting over what to do with him the safest route was to send him away. Lest she wished for another civil war.

They couldn’t afford the men. Not with the Other’s nearing the wall. However, as she lists all the reasons that this could be good, the bad overweighs it all. She didn’t want him to leave. He was dear to her, has been since she arrived at the Wall, broken in a vast space of snow.

And he the same. Losing a part of himself as he regained consciousness. He had fought for her, he has killed for her, and this is how she repays him? She had been blind with her need for power, for protection, for who could protect her better than herself?

And she realized that person was Jon. He has done everything in his power to keep lord’s away from her marriage hand, to keep her safe and loved. Even so, she had wanted the crown, she felt undermined. She had been the one to save Jon, save thousands of men, she helped win that war. Without her they would all be dead.

Slaughtered and fed to the hounds. She will admit, at first she was in a fit of glee once Jon had been named King. Thinking she could trust him. But it got worse over time. She lost confidence in his ability to rule and to keep her safe, to keep Winterfell safe. Sansa is not best when it comes to trust, not after everything she has been through, and she tried with him. She did her best and she lost in the end. After gaining everything she strived for, she lost the most important person in her life.

Now he wishes to head South, to meet his aunt, to meet his ‘true’ family. She can see it in the way he looks at her. He feels betrayed, wronged by the one person who brought him meaning and life. Sansa pains at the thought, rubbing her temples in slight.

She couldn’t handle it. The thought of him leaving her. She didn’t want to be alone. Not with Littlefinger, not with the Northerner’s, not by herself. This was her home, but it meant nothing without the one person who was the very definition of it.

Winterfell was a empty scape of dreary aptitude without Jon. He was Winterfell, he was the North, and she should have fought harder. She should have strived for peace with him at her side. But she had panicked, men shouting their hatred and she wanted to scream.

Littlefinger had been no help. She knew what he planned. She knows he expects marriage. To share her bed until she gives him a child. With a long sigh she stands. Deciding she could not allow this. They made her their Queen. She would not whimper in some corner, as if she did not have the power to set the world on fire and call it rain. As if she could not host a thousand men to her side with the blink of her eyes. She was their Queen.

Sansa would do as they have asked her to do. She will rule. She will reign. And her word will become law. Whether they like it or not. This man was her life, he kept her breathing when she herself could not. She would not send him away as if he were a disgrace when in actuality, he was all the more loyal than any man she has met. Gentle, brave and strong.

The Queen is quick to leave her chambers, the train of her braid swaying as she speedily makes her way to his bedchamber. She doesn’t bother to knock, opening the door with a hefty swing, finding him near his bed as he lies a heavy mantle about his shoulders. He seems surprised, eyes widening a fraction when she stands before him. A frown placid on her lips. Jon bows, hiding the anger and despair clearly tearing at his veins. Sansa seems to have lost her might, fingers pinching at the skirts of her gown in pure nerve, petrified to even say a word.

When he stands tall, same brooding features, he nods to her. “Your grace.” Sansa flinches at the brutality of his tone.

“Jon.” It’s a soft murmur, desperate in it’s own way as she hides the fear searing her body. She wants to tell him, say she doesn’t want him to leave, that he belongs here.

Despite him being a Targaryen- he is a dragon raised amongst wolves. And he is a Stark to her through and through. Broad in grey and white, black at times, and never left a vow untouched. His honor intact without remorse.

He was a Stark. A Targaryen would have burnt Winterfell to the ground if they had their way. But Jon? Jon was kind, generous, soft in a sense of care. And it was meant for her, he was meant to stay by her side- he was her _dragon._

“Do not fret, I am almost done.” He replies, giving her reflexive use of his name meaning. Sansa closes his chamber door, a soft click echoing what felt to be a bottomless pit.

His solar having drawn cold without the fire breathing in the grate- not too cold, with the hot springs running through Winterfell’s walls. But winter is here it the castle can be easily chilled now.. Sansa moves towards it, Jon does not watch, only fixates on what he needs finished. However, his attention flies to her when she sets logs within the hearth.

And sets it aflame.

Jon, he is confused, she can see it when she turns to him. “My Queen, I will not-”

“I am Sansa.” She interrupts. Voice sharp and distressed. “You used to call me Sansa, I am still Sansa.” Jon frowns. Sansa feels as if she might have belittled him, even if he were not the type to hurt over something so small as pride.

Even if he were, he does not show it. “Sansa.” He says cautiously, testing the name out on his lips, as if it were new to him. “I will not need a fire. I am departing today.” Sansa nods in acknowledgment.

“I am very well aware of that, Jon.” He lifts a brow and seemingly stiffens when she takes his mantle from his shoulders and lies it on the table far off in the corner. And when she walks towards the rest of his things he gawks in befuddlement, wishing to question her. Eyes black as ink, curious intent drifting out.

When she has began pulling out his trousers he finally asks “What are you doing?” Sansa looks up at him, casually so.

Seemingly throwing him off in doing so. “You are not leaving.” She says orderly. “You are to stay in Winterfell, and you will be named captain of the Queensguard.” She wanted more, but she could not say it, not now. Not when he looks as furious as he does. His dark brows furrowed in haste, eyes darker than the night sky, even as they shine as bright as the stars beside the fire light.

His lips are sealed in a tight line. “What?” He manages to grit out. Sansa looks to him once more, big eyes drawn doleful, and his shoulders slump. However, that does not halt the anger. “I thought you wanted me gone?” Sansa shakes her head.

“Littlefinger wants you gone, the Northern lords want you gone. I do not.” It was simple really, for she is Queen, and what they want on this matter does not interest her. The people’s morality, food and water supply mattered.

How much land the Karstarks lost and how much the Mormont’s gained mattered. Who has earned the Gift and the Dreadfort matters to her. But not their opinion of Jon Snow. Jon Stark. Jon Targaryen. What ever his name is.

Because he belonged to Winterfell, just as she belonged to him and he her. Jon does not look too happy about it all, the curve of his lips and the dusk in his hue. It all screams a fury twisted inside, the kind he has kept to himself for much too long.

“Your grace.” He saunters towards her. “I believe I will still take my leave. My aunt, the Queen in the South, wishes for my presence.” Sansa pinches one of his boiled leather doublets, fingernails indenting the surface.

Sansa knew exactly why Daenerys wished for his presence. Not just for his familial love, but for something more. The Queen needed heirs, she needed a husband and King consort. So did Sansa. And she’d be damned if the Dragon Queen took another from her. What other’s have taken from her. Bran had been enough. Rickon had been enough. Arya had been enough. Jon would not be stolen from her as the rest of her family had been.

Sansa turns to him, a soft frown claiming her. “I need you.” Jon goes rigid. “I need my home, you are my home, Winterfell is nothing without you.”

She does not know what she has said to offend him. For a low and feral growl emits from deep within his throat. “It does not seem like it, your gra-”

“Sansa.” She corrects, lips twisted. “My name is Sansa. Stop-”

“No.” He pivots to her, with a furious stare outlying the scars painted to his face. “You are a Queen, you wear Robb’s crown, you sit on the throne, the Red wolf and lady of Winterfell. I am a bastard born from war. To me, you are ‘your grace.” Sansa gives him a pointed look.

“And to me you are Jon.” He gulps. “Do not leave Jon. I need you. You are all I have left. I will undoubtedly fall without you by my side.” The words strain as she keeps back the tears welling in her eyes.

It had come so fast she had not expected it. The souse ready to drench her cheeks, a frantic patter of her heart as she attempts to have him see reason. Before it is too late.

“What would you have me do?” He grunts, folding his arms. “First you send me away, and now you wish for me to stay by your side? Will you change your mind once morning comes and send me away as you see fit?” Sasna shakes her head.

“Of course not. I do not want you to leave, I never did.” He doesn’t seem to believe her. “Jon, you must understand, the North is in an outrage and Littlefinger fanned the flames. I...at the time I had no choice but to name your departure.”

“So what makes the situation different now? They all still see me as a traitor, a man without honor even as I have fought for the North time and time again.” She swallows thickly. “Sansa, I do not want to be one of your pawns. I am done. It is over.”

“You are not one of my pawns!” She yelps, pulling him to face her. “You are my most trusted…” What would she call him. Her friend? Advisor? She loves him and yet she cannot state it simply for him to hear. “I trust you more than any man and woman here in the North. More so than Brienne and Tormund. More so than myself.” Jon tugs away, marching towards the small table.

Ready to swing the mantle over his shoulders once more. Sansa, in a fret of onslaught terror, reaches over and throws the mantle into the fire. They both look at the flames as they devour what was once the only mantle he had- but it was not the one she had made for him. He had given that back to her two days prior. She has no clue as to where he got that one. Jon scoffs, gawking at her in a scowl, thick enough to put her to shame. Sansa stands her ground however, folding her arms. Just as outraged as he.

“I said you cannot leave me.” She uses that voice, the sort she gives to her lords and lady’s when they have angered her. It’s demanding and cold; the gelid shower of loss and fear still glazing over her lithe form.

Jon, he looks all the more incensed, brows creasing and fists convulsing. “Am I to follow your every command now?” Sansa, with a biting tremor nods.

“As you have said, I am your Queen, your grace, I am the red wolf and lady of Winterfell and you just a child born of war.” The words sting her just as they do him. But she cannot bring herself to care at this moment, not when he had said the same thing just moments ago. “I reign over you. And as long as you dwell in the North you are mine to command.” He spins away from her.

Fingers drawn white as he digs them into the cleft of the table. Seemingly ready to hit something, anything, and he does. Snapping the table with a fist, hard enough to crack the wood, a shift in splinters that has Sansa jumping.

Sansa reaches over as he goes to punch it once more. “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself.” Alarmed, she anchors his wrist down, only to have her own caught in his palm. It’s tight, bruising almost and she attempts to yank back.

She has pushed him too far. To have been thrown in the dungeon, but be called a traitor, a failure, a monster- a dragon that has no place in the North only to have been ordered back? She would be furious just as well. The thought doesn’t stop her.

All she knows is he has the stare that could kill, if such a thing were possible. It’s that look she know’s so little of. Having only seen them directed on those who truly deserved it. She can only remember the pity filled glances back before they all left. When she had gone for Kings Landing and he the Wall.

And when she found him he was angrier, confused, lost, depressed throughout the day now a common trait. It had been before, but the emotion in him now overweighs the knowledge he had once used. It is raw and untouched. Vibrant just as it is dark.

“Hurt myself?” The words drip in poison. A hissing snip meant for her. “I’ve already hurt myself. I’ve lost my life, meaning, and sense. I fought a war for you when all I wished to do was leave. Run for Essos or the South. Instead you pushed. You always push.” He grits out, tightening his grip over her wrist.

Sansa huffs, pulling once more only to have him haul her close. “You push when there is nothing else to strive for. You have Winterfell, you have your crown, you have your praise and love- now let me leave. I am no longer needed as I no longer need you. I don’t want you, and I do not wish to be near you.” She can feel her heartbreak, pooling into the crevice of her abdomen, as it did when father lost his head, as is had when she had heard of mother and Robb’s deaths.

A sore reminder of what she has lost. Without sense, she brings up her free hand, slapping him hard. The crack whips into the air and only leaves him breathing hard. Her hand stings, burns, a trail of simmering strings row up her arm.

“I am sorry I have made you feel that way.” Sansa gasps. “If you truly wish to leave, than do so! Go away- and never come back!” His hand about her wrist never loosens, it lessens the effect of her words for she had planned to leave.

Sit in her chambers until she felt the doom leave, for the pounding in her heart to stop hurting her as it does, for her to cry as she needs to. To sob into her hands and unknown future without the one man she loves. The one man she trusts, cares for, feels comfortable with.

Knowing he will never harm her, touch her in any way that would agonize her, nor would he thrust and use her for power. He was good. He was so good and she no longer had him.

Sansa, finally, can wiggle her wrist in his grasp. Ripping herself away from him as he holds his cheek in mock shock. “What are you waiting for? Go, get your things and leave.” Sansa veers towards the door. “I will ready a horse and something warm for you.”

The hand is back around her wrist, strong and leaden in guilt, and it yanks her towards him. She is ready to slap him again, her hand still burnt from the last and she does not mind in the least to worsen the pain for the both of them.

However, she is stopped short when his lips press against hers in a tight fold. As if the fury he held now transmuted to her and only her. Her hand tingles with want to collide skin against skin, to hear the crackle of his skin mock the sound of the fire. The way it lashes out and burns.

Shatter the ice he has become, as he nips and tears at her lips as if it might solve his problems. As if it might solve her own- Sansa realizes, at this point, he is no longer ice. Despite where he was raised. He is fire, and his true father’s name held that to par. A dragon. For he breathes fire into her, tongue breaching her open with faltered confidence.

It takes her a moment, to catch up with what it is exactly he is doing, not until her bottom hits the table in distress. His free hand feeling for her hips, a wanton groan skidding down her throat in a deep vibration. Sansa is quick to lean into him, past aggression still a broiling mess, yet it only furthers his ministrations and her response to each and every one. As if he were the lightning and thunder to her storm- grey clouds drinking the sky of its blue.

It’s as if he has put a spell on her, for she softens under his touch, while he remains broad with a vigor she hasn’t felt in some time. His fingers dig into her skin, lifting the sleeve to stroke her bare arm.

Bringing up her free hand, she brushes it through the slant of curls crowning his neck. The rest having been pulled up tight to his head. The temptation to release it all is overbearing, however she wants to keep it that way. Something about the style shaking her to her knees.

Jon leaves her wrist, allowing the other hand to fly up to the back of his neck, salting the wound she had left on his cheek. A red blare of irritated skin shaping the mark of her hand. He smooths his tongue over her own, grunting in pleasure and she can only buck her hips.

Sansa hums into him, pulls at what little hair she can grab, bites at his lower lip until he has her atop the table. Lying on her back as he leans over her, a heavy weight she finds more than welcome.

A soft whine leaves her when he draws his lips to her neck, just under her jaw with a nip and suck. Sansa has never felt pleasure before, but she is certain this must be it. For she is squirming under his touch, and enjoys the feel of his warm hands lifting her dress, bruised knuckles and calloused fingers kneading at her bare thighs.

“Fuck.” He croaks into her neck, hands scraping long and wide until he corners her inner thigh and she rolls into his hand. He is hesitant, careful, and she takes his hand and curls it inwards. Urging him to continue, to not stop at her leg, but to further his way up.

A desperate moan is trapped in her throat, a begging lift of her hips until he is at her center. A finger dips, and she can already feel her stomach warm, curl and coil the way a viper does before attacking. A spray of dragons fire laminating the entirety of her.

Lightly, he drags, until he is at her clit, lugging his finger in long strokes. Sansa sighs, lifting herself up to meet his hands. Wherever they may be. On her hip or between her legs, it feels all the same with the way he lights her up.

Static energy without an end or beginning. Circling around her sweet spot, he delves another finger down and sinks it inside her, moving his thumb to take his forefingers place. Sansa, subconsciously spreads her legs further. Offering better access. Jon licks at a pale strip of skin along her neck.

Before lowering himself to her chest, where her gown as been drafted, showing what cleavage she felt comfortable with. But Jon’s hand leaves her thigh and digs at it, desperate to have it ripped away. He does nothing to ruin the dress, simply pulls her up, mouth still open on her neck and hand still cupping her cunt- tearing at the thread of fabric keeping the gown up and together.

The bodice loosens, and she can breathe, more so now than she had before. He flicks at her, blunt nails carving into her nub as he pulls out of her. Sansa moans out his name, and trembles when the dress leaves her shoulders. And she can feel him, hard against her thigh as he does this.

With shaking hands, he has it draped to her waste, her shift thin underneath. Licking at his fingers, he hums, savoring the taste and Sansa wishes to close her legs in embarrassment. Never having witnessed a man do such a thing.

Slowly, he palms her breasts and pulls her close, kissing her once more. Nipples pebbling under his touch. Readily, she opens her mouth and sings at the taste of him. Mead and venison, both stale and yet she has never tasted anything better. Lemon cakes a thing of the past.

He pulls away far too early, and when he lifts her, she nearly squeals. He places her before the bed, dragging the dress down so it pools around her feet. He sits her down, and it’s as if he controls her now, a mindless puppet to his touch. Sansa cannot find it in herself to mind it.

Kneeling down he pulls off her boots, shucking them to the side but he never rises. Sansa holds back a whine, instead she reaches for him. An alluring prospect, to have him back on top of her, his weight shifted over her own. He is heavy, a blatant expanse of muscle and scar tissue. And she loves it. Every inch. Sansa plays with the buttons of his leather doublet, read to tear it the way he had her gown, and throw both it and the jerkin to the ground.

She wants to feel him, needs to feel him under her lustful hands. To dent a finger at every crook and crane his chest holds, to dig her nails into his back in want. It is a priority. Never has she wanted to see a man naked as she does him.

He helps her, pulling both off and throwing them onto the floor. Sansa gifts him a delicate smile, he does not give one back, but she can see the amusement in his features. And the adoration in his eyes.

Gentle with her touch, she skims his chest with splayed fingers, gazing at the scars that rim him from top to bottom. The worse, she thinks, are those from the Night's Watch. Where each stab is still left open almost. A gaping betrayal that he may only cover with leather and cloth- mail if he wishes.

His hands pull her forwards, wrapping about the back of her neck and the side of her face, kissing her as if she might break. Even if a moment ago he could have fucked her until she no longer breathed without a care. Her braid falls loose under his hands, and he cards his fingers through the length of silk copper. Permitting the waves to fall over her shoulders, toppling over the small sanction of her breasts. He leans back on his heels, and his eyes glint in the light.

And under his breath he mutters “Beautiful.” As if he no longer knew the sight of Winterfell’s sunrise, or the vast scape over the Wall; as if she were the only one who could host such beauty. It has her heart flutter and a commission of butterflies to ground inside her abdomen.

Still, Jon does not stand, but he pushes her to lie back on the bed. Furs and cloth tickling at her back and arms, a chill rising over her bare body. Sansa lifts her head when she feels his lips on her leg, watching in curiosity as he nears the junction between her thighs.

It tickles, and her stomach swirls.

Sansa near pulls away, a fright dancing inside as she makes an attempt to close her legs. Jon looks up, as if he were bowing before her, both brows lifts. If only for a moment.

“What is wrong?” Jon asks. Sansa doesn’t know how to reply. She had absolutely no clue as to what he planned to do, but she knew she didn’t like it.

Sansa shoulders her head, rising to her elbows. “What were you going to do?” Her voice shakes, and Jon cocks his head.

“I…” He draws his attention to the center of her, a small smile perking at his lips, resulting in a flush resonating to her cheeks. “I was hungry. I thought I might show you.” Sansa, muddled, tilts her head. Hungry? Why was he thinking of supper at a moment like this?

She is still unsure when he lowers his head, his hand pushing her back down, he offers reassurance. “If you do not like it, I will stop.” His voice is bland, as if he were telling a lie. A fib hovering before her and she sighs.

It’s wet, quick, and darts at her and she instantly feels the need to close her legs. He holds her, draping both legs over his shoulders and buries his face in her cunt. Sansa gasps, hot breath caressing her center, his tongue swiping at her once more.

Although, he is quick to flatten the appendage, draping a long glide along her slit. Sansa moans out, hands fisting the furs around her. Long, short, long, short; it is a pattern, and he delves into her once she is squirming and tightening around him.

Dipping in, the wetness swirls around the pearl of her apexx. A volt of pleasure slides up her spine, and a boil of hot satisfaction tightens inside her abdomen. He does something, curling inside her with his finger, having appeared from nowhere and she moans out his name.

Over and over until her hands are in his hair, jerking him forward as if it might speed up the process. Sansa would be embarrassed if it weren’t for the way he made her feel, falling and flying all at once.

His mouth leaves, and she has the urge to scream, looking down at him in a bolted fury. As if they were fighting in the same warzone, a paradise all the same, and her heels dig into his back. He snickers, the wafts of hot breath lick at her the same way he does. And he obliges her infuriation with two fingers, gliding them in with ease. “You’re wet for me.” He groans. “So very wet.”

Sansa foists her hips into his fingers. He smiles up at her, head still placid between her thighs and frustration crawls down her back the way snow does her hair. She wants him to continue whatever it was he had just been doing. And it shows.

He gives a short lick, watching for a reaction, and she hoists into him. “You taste so sweet.” He hums into the side of her inner thigh. “Your cunt is well ready for me, isn’t it?” Sansa, in bitter denial, turns her attention to the wall beside them.

That doesn’t stop the mewl, the word vulgar and hot. He laps at her once more, shorter than the last, and a pallid lipped croon exits her. Fingers straining in his hair, now a mess.

“Do you like it?” He asks, knowing full well she does. “When I say cunt?” That, she had not expected. She liked it when his mouth was on her, whole and wet. Lips pressed to her, tongue and teeth dining upon her.

The word brings an entirely different meaning to her, and she finds that yes, she does. Much to her disdain.

A coo leaves her lips, a delicate measure in just how she feels. Jon’s eyes darken, as if he had won something, and with pride in leans in closer. “You have the most delicious cunt, sweetling.” Sansa, once more, moans out. His name whispered upon her lips. “I could sup on it every night and every morning. Will you let me, sweetling? Will you let me sup on your sweet, delicious cunt?”

Her hips jerk, up into his face and he happily takes her in. Sucking on the tender clit until she is, embarrassingly enough, grinding into his mouth. Heels digging into his back, for a purchase she cannot seem to grasp. Arching her back she bucks, falls, and shudders when his tongue enters her. The noises he makes have he clenching her jaw, her brows furrowed, and trudged whimpering exiting her swollen lips.

Jon’s fingers squeeze, holding her close, keeping her grounded, and a part of her believes he is the only reason why she hasn’t fallen. A sudden scorch runs her down, breathing her in as her stomach tumbles, and instinctively she tightens. Struggling to breathe.

She...She doesn’t know what that was, with her toes curling into his back and her body going limp. Her chest heaving as if she had just run from Winterfell to the Wall all over again. He laps up what has spilled from her, eagerly she might add, and she feels the warmth gather again.

Jon lifts his head, in a haze she gawks down at him, his lips moist just as his beard is. Sansa runs a hand down to his cheek. Recollection of their spat has her heart curling. “Will you leave after this?” Her voice is hoarse, worn with a tremble.

Jon shakes his head, lifting himself up and wavering above her. In doing so she can feel his cock press to the side of her leg, even as her legs fall over his shoulders and spread for him to further his way up.

“Not unless you will still have me.” The timbre of his tone shakes her to her very core. And she lifts up, wrapping her legs around his waist in desperation. Quickly she pulls at the laces of his breeches, Jon stops her before she can finish. “Will you have me?” He repeats, unsure.

Sansa, she holds back a smile, the sentence meaning two separate things. Nodding she says “Yes, of course I will have you.” Jon finishes for her, pulling himself out from his trousers and widening her just a tad more than she had herself.

He wastes no time, entering as if she might run off at the last second. Sansa mewls, feeling herself tense around his cock. He holds still, burrowing his head in the crook of her neck, shoulders rippling under her palms. Sansa has only experienced the horror of joining with another, the sheer terror, but Jon? Jon only brings pleasure and endearment and she wants him deeper. Her heels now denting in at his ass, thrusting him forward as to get him to move.

Jon plunges, in and out, with little to no pattern. It’s erratic, uncertain, and she loves every bit of it. A hand lifts her by the small of her back and she makes a noise that has to be inhuman, and he cups a cheek in his hand. As if it might help with setting a pace.

It doesn’t.

He only grows more eager, fast, Sansa can feel herself choke on her own delight. She speaks, hoarse, “Harder, Jon.” She hums, and she feels herself scoot up the bed as he snaps his hips in a motion that could have her crying.

The sharp curve of her nails flatten about his back, drag and pull, and she is almost certain she has drawn blood. Swallowing her dignity she kicks at him, wrenches him close, and nips at his ear- bringing herself to kiss him, to taste herself.

He is right. She is sweet, if not a bit salty. He groans, growls, bares his teeth into the kiss and slots his over her own unevenly. The sheen of sweat covering her now surprises her, for she has never been this exhausted, and why should she? She hasn’t moved, and yet the exertion from it has her feeling tired all the same. For a moment he stills, feet digging in the feather mattress, craning her knees further up his spine. He stops moving, for a moment, before he invades once more. Ramming into her slow, but hard.

His hand somehow having found it’s way between her legs, he roll at her now pulsing nub. Ivory skin glistening as her arousal drips down her thighs. Sansa grows excited, murmuring his name, claiming how much she loves him and his cock. How he is meant to be her King- her husband and the father of her children.

It lasts for a time, and he struggles to keep inside. To keep moving.

A sacking jitter, and he almost pulls out, only to have Sansa propel him back in with a loud slap. Not wanting him to leave her. He growls into her clavicle, shuddering as he spends inside her. Knowing full well he had intended to leave her for that exact reason only to be kept where he is.

Sansa kisses him one last time, nails catching in his hair. “Be my King. Promise to never leave me and be my King.” She practically pleads, her legs still crossed over him. He nods immediately.

“Yes, my Queen.” She loves him, and she knows he loves her, however she doesn’t say it. Sansa will find the time when her throat is not dry and he is still sheathed inside her- nor when she feel she might faint. Yes, she will tell him when they wake in each other’s arms. Her still bearing his seed within her womb and his arms wrapped around her.

“I love you.” Sansa is shocked, to hear him say it as he does, sleepily carrying the both of them up his bed and under the covers, Sansa sighs.

She supposes now was the right time as well. “And I you.”


	21. Steal You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gabbygumsss asked: I love the prompt you did for the tournament! If you have time can you do one where Jon is a wildling and one of the leaders of the freefolk who meets and takes a liking to Sansa, the ruler of Winterfell?
> 
> Warning: Fluffy

***

***

Sansa will admit, she is not quite fond of the free folk, most have inapt attitude towards her and her men. However, they helped her take back Winterfell in trade for land, and that she can respect. They are apart of the North now, apart of her Kingdom, and she will treat them as such.

She does get on rather well with Tormund Giantsbane, simply because he is an honest man and see’s it as it is. Even in the most dire situations. And she will not lie, Val is a great woman, dignified and worthy of her title princess. Not that she keeps the title.

And, with little preamble, she thinks she might enjoy Jon’s person as well. Being as calm and quiet as he is, you would think he was raised here in Winterfell itself and not on the other side of the Wall. With the free folk and there unknown customs- the sort that has her confused, if she were to be honest. No doubt they were addled by her own.

Sansa thinks it is good the North and the wildlings have put their pasts behind them, so they may rally an army strong enough to withstand both the Other’s and Cersei. A woman controlled by a madness so deep, it now plagues the North itself. Sansa would have kept to herself.

Ruling the Riverlands and the North was hard on it’s own, and she kept from the politics of the South. It did not interest her nor did it bother her. She left it long ago, when she broke free from her cage and no longer sang for them but herself.

But her men found caches of wildfire, hidden in the Wolfswood. No doubt sent by Cersei, men in Lannister red attempting to hide the caches before they were found. Today they have gathered to speak of what to do with Cersei, for she would be the problem they must solve before the dead come, a storm waiting on the other side.

Jon, in his right, is the only one speaking sense. For he and Tormund have actually seen the threat, and claim it is worse than what she had initially gathered. It did not help that her little brother, Bran, refused to leave the Wall in fear of it falling. Due to a mark left on his arm. Sansa understood, but she did not like it.

She stressed over it day and night, and the constant thought of how he may be doing haunts her. Deep in thought she stares aimlessly, as though she might be entertained by the wall instead of those before her.

Currently, lord Glover and lord Manderly speak freely, twisting their tongues and biting on words, they hoist with great annoyance and raise their voices. Sansa rolls her eyes, once Littlefinger decidedly leans down and whispers “Perhaps, you should stop them?”

He was right, of course, but the dull affair had her scratching at her table. It was not that she did not care about their walls, they needed defense, even so their current problem was a priority. Not their toiled bickering. It only grows louder when the free folk join, abrupt, raucous and high pitched. Sansa, with the lift of her brow, shifts in her seat and exclaims loudly “I will have order in this chamber.” Everyone silences, including the free folk. Who turn to Jon in question, and when he nods, they settle back in their seats.

She gives him a short lived glance, and tilts her head before returning to the men. “As I have said, you will receive your masons once we have dealt with the mad Queen. I am in no mood to listen to you bicker like children. You are lords, act like it.” Father was right, she finds, they are like children. It is your duty to protect and solve their issues. Much to her distaste.

The bow respectfully, head’s drawn in doleful glum. A short cough is issued, and Sansa turns her attention to Jon. Who waits patiently for her permission to speak. Giving him a nod he stands.

“If you wish for the mad Queen to be taken off her throne, you will need ship’s.” Sansa already knew this. She has sent word to the Ironborn fleet with her conditions, if they are to take Cersei off her dreaded throne. Asha Greyjoy was manageable, and she knew Theon.

He would not make the same mistake again, and she would receive the ship’s that her late brother should have been given. “I am very well aware of this lord Snow.” She blurts, standing. “As we need more men, and a battle plan that will not kill all of you. The Queen is just as erratic as her wildfire. You do best to remember that.”

It’s almost funny, his last name. The title given to a bastard, even if he is not one- or not that she knows of. It could be possible, but the name Snow was only given to that of a bastard of a noble house. Not some man on the other side of the Wall.

It intrigued her when they first met. The solemn man spoke plainly, did not bow or pay respects, and demanded they be gifted something in return for their much needed help. Sansa had ignored his disrespect, knowing full well it was different from where he came, and obliged.

Sansa and he did not get along at first, slowly however, she grew to respect him and his ability to lead. And vice versa, she would hope, for his demeanor about her has changed dramatically. He is respectful, and he addresses her as my lady rather than by her name or last.

In doing so, she has earned the free folk’s respect. It has made sharing the North all that much easier. And the two have not fought over land for a time, luckily enough for her. He cocks his head, folds his arms, and nods. “Of course I do my best to remember. But we have made no move for ship’s, my lady.” Sansa gives him a soft, conniving smirk.

It befuddles him, as he draws to dark brows together. “Yes, we have. And we will get our fleet of three hundred by the next moon, if the God’s be good.” It wasn’t a certainty, but her spies down on the Iron Islands say otherwise. Theon has been doing well in convincing Asha to help.

Jon, he gives this look of muddled impression, and sits up straight. “Well, I am impressed, my lady.”

“Is there reason at why you should not be?” She lifts a delicate brow, indication enough for him to smirk on his own withdrawal and waves a hand to her.

And with a cruel vigor, in front of so many, he replies “Of course not, Sansa.”

If she had enough reason, she would have had him choked in his own bed by now. But he was a good man, despite his indifference to what their customs meant.

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

Jon enjoys her like this, perplexed and irritated all at once. They have thrown a feast in winning, for they have killed Cersei and given the throne to the famed dragon Queen. Who now offers her dragons in the war to come with the undead.

The lady Sansa was more than pleased with this outcome. She had even earned more than one knight along her way and found her sister, Arya. Jon immediately liked the girl. She reminded him of those beyond the Wall. Aggressive, short tempered, easily vexed and a cunning taste of satire.

Much like Val, who sits next to Sansa, a large smile on her face and a joyful laugh. And behind the lady, the men she has earned. Apparently there are titles here in the South, a sworn sword and shield. And she has three- four if you count the man without a hand. Jon finds he only has fed his respect to Brienne, the large woman who has taken more men than he himself. Their blood stained to her mail, and to her skin, whether she would like to admit it or not.

Gawking at the lady, he leans into his chair, sipping from the horn in hand. He is startled when Tormund comes to sit next to him, a chirping smirk lacing his lips. “You going to steal her?” Jon lifts a brow, sitting up.

“What?”

Tormund cants his head to the side, directed towards Sansa herself. Who gleams with a chalice stuck to her lips, as if she may drink it but has not yet decided if she will. Jon should feign his offense, for he stole that wine for her.

Arbor Gold, a favorite as she has once told him. And she despised just how much she enjoyed it. Considering the taste had ruefully implanted itself to her tongue, from where she had been trapped in Kings Landing. With those who tormented her.

Jon shakes his head. “I would, she’s a beauty, and it is no secret you find her...what? Tasty?” Jon about throws his horn of ale at him, swinging his arm back so the man throws his arms up in preparation.

He laughs and Tormund frowns, rolling his eyes. “If you don’t take her soon, I’m sure the bastard of fingers will. With the way he looks at her, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried by the morrow.” Jon huffs. Tormund was correct, Littlefinger obviously found her attractive.

And Jon had never been good with sharing- even if she had not yet known they belong to each other.

With a grunt he stands and saunters his way towards the table, making certain to give Littlefinger a slant glare before reaching her and settling himself beside her. A warning he supposes. He can feel the wretched snake’s eyes on him.

Val reaches his eyes and immediately stands, leaving the two alone. Sansa, in confusion, stirs to her side and sighs. Dramatically he might add- he must say, he loves it when she gifts him with her taunting side as well.

“What is it you want?” She drawls, finally taking a sip of the Arbor Gold.

Jon watches keenly, the way her lips frame the chalice of silver, how perfect the flower she is bloom’s about it. Like those roses he had found in the glass gardens. The same that color her hair- kissed by fire. He has always loved hair kissed by fire. And he has an itching need to run his fingers through it, to see her lips bloom as he does so. It looks like silk, with the way the copper trembles down her shoulders. Northern and perfect.

The way a ‘lady’ should wear it.

Leaning forward, he gestures towards Littlefinger with the tilt of his head. “I thought I might speak with you, before the man bothers you again.” Sansa snickers, pulling the chalice away from her mouth, her cheeks reddening.

“I can deal with him my lonesome, lord Snow-”

“Jon.” He interrupts. “I am Jon to you. As I am to the rest, I am not good with formality.” She smiles, setting her cup down.

“As you have said before.” Her tone is curtly, yet holds a twist that has his stomach fluttering beneath the thick of his skin.

He wishes to touch her, to reach out and stroke her face, and he thinks he might steal her before no one else may. Swing her over his back and take her back to The Last Hearth. The very keep she had given him and his men. A nice settlement- the same that he has battled before. Not himself, but his people. The Umbers hosting quite a formidable force. But now they were no more, not after their betrayal to their lady Stark.

He leans in further, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought you would like the company, then.” Sansa, she flushes, looking at him with those big blue eyes- the same that have been steeled in ice time and time again now melting for him.

A great well of pride drowns him, and he holds his breath with little to no reason. In waiting for her response. “I suppose I would.” She hums. He does not miss the scowl Littlefinger seems to be giving him, when he turns to look out.

“I have a question.” He puts forth.

Intrigued, she leans in. “And what is your question?” Jon does not know if it is the foil of the fire that runs in his veins, or the distaste he holds for the man himself.

But he asks something that might have gotten any other man a glower. “Why do you keep him? Are you not afraid he will take you, or do you believe him to be good and he has somehow earned your trust?” He needn’t say who he speaks of.

She clearly knows of whom he addresses. Sansa curls forward, closer than he himself has and his heart quickens. “Because he is the reason so many Southron houses now obey me. He has a little thumb over them all, and I need that thumb until I have made my name stable and known.” Jon lifts a brow.

The wardeness was all the more cunning than he gave her credit for. “You’re using him?”

“Just as he thinks he is using me.” Her breath is hot against his ear, a shrill of goose flesh climbs his back. “A wonderful trick I have learned over the years. You men are useless when it comes a woman and her body.” Jon swallows thickly.

Did that mean she and him…

He pulls back, looking to her incredulously. Sansa giggles, leaning back into her seat, as if she enjoyed the sight of him in fright.

It only pulls him forth to push his luck. “Then I guess it is time I steal you away.” She gapes openly at him. “Make you my wife, if I must. I do not like sharing.” With the way she stares, his bold comment has made her blush as it has made her angry. “I have tried before, but I am even difficult with my steel. The last man who tried to take Clawsbane lost three fingers- you could imagine the mess if someone made an attempt to take you; as you are mine.”

He does not understand his boldness, but Jon doesn’t like the thought of her possibly seeing Littlefinger as an option. Even if she did not say it. He wants to leave her speechless, so he presumes to leaving before she can yell.

For her lips twist in a fury he finds excruciatingly irritant and lovely- a definitive arousal takes him at the sight. And he fears he will grow hard before he leaves the chamber.

 

* * *

 

He does steal her.

Not in your typical, wildling way. He does not whisk her away to The Last Hearth, but to her chambers after a tiring council meeting. Throwing her over his shoulder in show, for Petyr had taken to escorting her to her chamber.

A roar of fire must have filled him, for he swooped in, hauled her up by her waist and threw her over him quickly enough that it had darkened her vision. The sight of Littlefinger watching helplessly as he carried away nearly had her in a fit of laughter-

Even if what Jon had done was entirely inappropriate. She should be angry but she cannot find in herself to be when he speaks of how sweet she smells, and how he enjoys the feel of her body against her own. Nor can she disregard the warmth buried deep within her abdomen as his hands crown her thighs in keeping her steady.

When he breaches her chamber and slams the door behind him with his foot, he carries her to her bed with tremendous speed. And Sansa finds that she is laughing, little hiccups filling the silence as he drifts to her bed.

She plops lightly, the furs tickling her neck and what skin it can touch. Sansa makes an attempt to speak through her laughter, holding her breath every other second. “What is it you think you are doing?” Jon smiles, hovering above her.

“I told you, have I not? I am stealing you. It is what a man does when he wants a woman as his own.” Sansa pushes at his chest.

“I am not yours, I am nobody’s.” She says with ill determination. Jon nods, leaning forward and settling himself atop her.

His weight a welcomed force. “Well, I am certain Littlefinger will be listening. So I would enjoy allowing him to think that you are mine- and I would very much enjoy claiming you as mine.” Sansa scoots up, furs pulling at her skin.

Jon only follows her and she giggles once more. A light flutter dancing in her chest. This is not what she thought the outcome of her relation to Jon Snow would be. Perhaps a bit of ignorant respect and belligerent understanding. Not a mutual attraction, let alone the need to have him the way he wants her. He takes a lock of her hair, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb, a coy smile lifting his lips.

“Wed me.” Sansa shakes her head.

“I would…” She lolls her head to the side, acting as if she were bothered. “But I believe I might take someone else as my husband. Someone who is Southron and-”

He interrupts her with a kiss, heavy and wanton and she can only react by giving the same back. Humming into the kiss as he pulls and nips. His fingers dance in her hair, feeling the smooth texture against the pad of his fingers with a moan.

When he pulls back, her lips are swollen and red, just as his are. “I will steal you if I must, take you far away and keep you all to myself.” She snickers once more, the laughter peaking as he nibbles playfully on the fresh strip of skin on her neck.

Easily, he breaches her, hands leaving her hair as to dig at her stomach. She tries to scurry away, heaving for oxygen the longer her tickles her. “Say it. Say you will wed me.” He demands. “Or this will never come to an end.” She nods in desperate measures, coughing as he pulls his hands away.

Her face feels hot, the dimples of her cheeks burn and it hurts to smile. However, she cannot stop. In a jousting lunge, she brings herself up, wraps her arms around his neck and nods.

“Of course I will wed you.” He buries his head into the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of rose and lavender- pine as well.

Sansa knows he enjoys pine, but not as much as he loves lavender. “Good.” He murmurs. “I love you.” Sansa, once in awhile, protests to him saying such things.

But now felt right. “And I you, my love.”


	22. Kissed by Fire II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alissa (I think? She submitted and the layout was all weird and her username left): Hey can you do one where Sansa hears Jon talking about Ygritte and gives him the cold shoulder?
> 
> Part Two!

***

***

Jon paces back and forth within the confinements of his chamber, fingers itching to touch or hit- a mix between fury and want. He is not angry with Sansa, far from it, in fact he felt remorse- guilt even.

He is her brother, for God’s sake! And to feel the same, when his father, _their_  father taught him better, to wish for the honorable Ned Stark’s daughter is the worse offense he could offer his lord father. That is why he is angry, to have allowed himself to fallen victim to his emotions once more. It is only worsened to know that she feels the same, it poison’s him to know she is disgusted with herself just as he is with himself.

He shouldn’t have left, he should have comforted her.

But he knew when he was wanted and at the moment he was not. He would have only made things worse, to have stayed behind and hold her, kiss away the pain and guilt. But that was not his right, he would not take her, he would not dare think of it; the world jests as his trousers strain.

Growling out he hits his desk, warring away in mind, to stay or go see if she is okay. He couldn’t simply leave her alone in that state, near tears, lips quivering, the stain of red on her cheeks as the realization hit her harder than it hit him three moons back.

He wants to brush the crimson from her cheeks, to string his fingers through those locks of burnished copper, to feel her flush against him. To have her feel safe in his arms when everyone else kept her at bay, her walls held tall and high- while for him, they were smothered into the ground.

Gnawing his lip in thought he grunts, eyes dark, surely he should go see if she is alright? It wasn’t right of him to leave so quickly, without question. He has done so many a time, with Sansa and many others.

For once he should go back and stop the agony writhing inside and help drown it before it can take its first breath. That had to be the answer, not his insatiable need to hug her again, to feel her warmth against him.

To smell lemon and lavender, leaden in her hair and flesh. No, he wishes to comfort not only her but himself. They should speak about it. Like adults. He needs to act a King and she a lady, despite the fear it held.

  
Stomping out of his chamber he finds his way to her door- he had forced Sansa to take the lord and lady’s chamber. He could not have possibly taken it knowing well enough she had fought just as hard, harder even.

The war began the moment she entered Winterfell on her lonesome and was wed to that monster; that mad dog. She fought it with her every breath and she had won, the least she deserved was the soft comfort of her mother and father’s solar.

Jon was perfectly fine with his old barracks. He could smile at the memory, if the current situation weren’t so troubling. Of how he had ordered her as King to take the chamber, she had to at that point. And the arguing had ended.

Knocking quickly, he waits, his heart plummeting upon hearing no answer. It drops deep, fills with uncertainty, and the battle nearly feels all but lost- had he already lost? Had this ruined them?

He about leaves when it swings open, Sansa looking at him, eyes stained red, cheeks tracked and nose pink. Jon gapes, she looks a mess, hair scrambled as if she had been running her fingers through it.

It feels as if they had just spoken, as if she had just demanded he leave, when in reality it took place at least five hours before. Five hours of pacing, thinking and agonizing distress.

She does not smile, not as she usually does, instead she freezes. Had she been expecting someone else? He licks his lips, watches her carefully as to not scare her off and scrambles to find the right words.

No matter how simple they may be. “May I come in?” The baritone is deeper than intended and he grimaces. That is not how he wished to ask- on the brink of breaking. Sansa, taking in a leaden inhale, scoots to the side.

It would seem they thought the same, they would have to talk this through. Rather than avoid each other like a couple of children. Sansa runs a hand through her hair, before taking a flask in hand and a chalice.

She looks to him. “Would you like some?” He shakes his head no, watching as she fills the chalice and takes it all in three gigantic sips. She sets them both down hesitantly, as if she may need more. He does not blame her. He would want more than what she had just consumed.

Jon waits for her to say something, not wanting to move, in fear he may ruin the gentle current of ease they have now planted. And he is still in shock from what she said, for his heart sputters when she merely looks at him, knowing full well she feels the same as he does.

Jon thinks he should start the conversation, for she looks to be stumped, perhaps scared? “Sansa…” He tries, his voice is soft and understanding- but it must have come off wrong, for she turns to him, short from a glare.

“I do not need your pity.”

He does not know how to respond, lips sealed shut in confusion. Had it sound as a call for sympathy? If so, that was his mistake. He wants to fix it, however the way she stares tells him perhaps she should keep quiet for a moment. So the both of them may collect their thoughts.

Jon stands awkwardly, before moving forward to sit on the edge of her bed. Sansa does not say anything, just watches as he does so, and he feels misplaced, more so than he had standing. He has no intention on moving, however.

He feels it might only thicken the tension now building between them. Sansa turns away from him for a moment, playing with a strand of hair, curling it around his finger. He craves to do the same thing. To hold all of it, to brush through the silken strands and watch as they catch flame, to fan them across his pillows, to have them illuminate the shadow’s of his chamber as he-

Cutting himself short, he rests his hands on his knees and gawks aimlessly. From the wall to the hearth, fire leaping out, chasing the cotton white shift Sansa wears- a heavy mantle draped over her shoulders for additional warmth.

Taking a deep breath, she finally turns to him, the fire behind illuminating her figure. Her hair practically glowing, as if it breathed on its own the way fire does. A scorch hardly contained.

Folding her arms, as if to hold herself, she avoids his gaze. “I apologize.” Sansa says plainly. “I should not have said what I...I did not mean it. I am just exhausted, and today’s council meeting did not help. I do love you, but you are my brother, and that love does not extend any further than appropriate.” Jon cannot tell if this is an excuse or the truth.

He preferred if it were an excuse. He thinks to what she had said, what had riled her in the first place. Ygritte. She’s been gone for so long...He has not thought of her since he came back. Having been too focused on what stood in front of him rather than behind. More concerned for the future, for Sansa, than those who died in his arms.

For they were gone and he needn’t protect them any longer. Ygritte, he had loved her, and he thinks a part of him will always love her. A small part, but a fraction no less. What had once been a hole is now filled with another vibrant woman.

Who holds her own. However, she is utterly different. Defiant, yes, but is political, lady like, and prefers the persuasion in her words than that of a sword. She is different in every single, best, possible way.

He wonders if this all led to Sansa comparing herself to someone who had left him so long ago. Jon had been a tad angry to hear her name, that it was his past lover making Sansa act up as she had. He is so used to her being coordinated and silent, compassionate, yes, but only in dire times.

Jon had not expected her to ever find out about Ygritte, to ever ask, but she had and now he sits in her room ready address what she had said.

Nodding at her comment slowly, he can’t figure out how to respond. Does he say he understands and asks if she wants to talk about it? Or does he hold her and say it’s alright, leaving her be? None of these had the outcome he wanted.

He wished to tell her he felt the same, but she already appeared ready to evade any and all intimacy with him. He understood, after everything she’s been through- not to mention their relation. Suddenly, he is pinched in culpability.

This is not what Eddard Stark would want for his daughter. For her half-brother to pine over someone who has lost everything. No matter the warmth she gives him, the affection and care, the way her voice and smile make his stomach churn.

Or how any mention of his name whispered from her lips has him tighten, and her touches, no less than a skim, have his heart ready to burst. Thrumming inside, leaden in reluctant adoration and realization of what exactly he feels for the lady of Winterfell.

The woman named the winter rose, the wolf maiden, a woman so beautiful they say she holds the North itself in her heart. As cold and daring as snow, pretty to look at but just as gelid.

But she was not cold towards him. She is soft, balmy to hold and speak with. He frowns, hand coming to cascade down his jaw, holding his mouth shut. He could live without her love, as long as she was happy and alive, he would suffer the heartbreak.

All that mattered was that she was comfortable, that she remained safe and far from those who wished to harm her. That is what Eddard Stark wanted. That is what Jon wants. And he would carry out that want until the day he died.

Jon nods again. “I understand.” Sansa breathes out in relief, there is no smile, but he can see it in her eyes. His first conclusion must have been correct. This was her truth as it was his downfall. She must have been confused, and wanted to explain what she meant. “Do you wish for me to stay or…” Sansa shakes her head.

“I should rest. As should you, we have a long day tomorrow.” The air thickens, the world pauses and he holds his breath. He stands, willing himself to keep his distance, and smiles over at her.

And hopes to the old God’s and the new that is does not display his anguish. The words unsaid left to his lips in a scatter of loss hope and broken love.

“Goodnight Sansa.” He murmurs.

Her voice is that of a song. “Goodnight Jon.” Jon was wrong. She did not love him the way he does her. He had been mistaken. His fault, he supposes.

At least they discussed it, otherwise he is certain he would have turned to stone and died in regret. He leaves quickly, to trudge the thundering in his chest and the withering glum threatening to bring him to the edge of despair.

He just needed to walk it off. Jon was a fool to think she might feel the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you thought this would have a happy ending. That's funny.


	23. Sparring for Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tigereye771 said: I’m not sure if I’m doing this right, but I have a prompt: Like all the women at Winterfell Sansa enjoys watching Jon in the training yard, especially since he had a tendency to remove his shirt. However, when he seems to be more deliberate in his actions, Sansa realizes Jon knows exactly what he is doing & the effect he has. But is he trying to impress a specific woman? If so, who she wonders.

***

***

Sansa doesn’t ordinarily watch men fight. It is a mess that she would rather stray from, instead of watch. Considering the filth it comes with, the sweat and dirt, it is all filthy and a part of her despises the Gods for even creating such a mess.

However, like many of the women in the Stark household, she does not mind viewing Jon as he does so. Not so much as why they do, but she understands. Sansa is more interested in what he has learned and what will keep him alive.

It is why she is even outside in the first place, watching as he spars with the lovely Brienne and Tormund. She likes to question what exactly will keep Jon safe, what will better extract the blood of the enemy rather than his own.

For his life is all the more important than anyone in this training yard- other than Rickon. A sad, vulnerable thought. But he is important to her, and would appreciate if he stayed alive, instead forcing himself in dangerous situation’s. Just as she would feel much better of Rickon would stop wandering off…

Sansa glances to the left, a small group of slow moving women watch. Mesmerized by the sight of the slick covered Jon, his curls damp against the crown of his neck, the cotton of his tunic sticking to the rim of his chest.

Some are even giggling, as if they have never seen a man before. When Sansa know’s they have seen more of a man than herself. Those stable boys truly do not know what it means to keep discretion when it comes to bedding another, she’s heard more than she is willing to know.

There is a loud yelp, in a panic Sansa darts her attention to what is before her, nearly falling when the practice blade swings at her face and the spray of slush is thrust her way. Jon spins, looking to her in concern as Sansa gasps at the mess.

“Are you alright?” Jon hurriedly asks, waltzing towards her in worry. “Did it hit you?” Sansa pleats the skirts of her gown, a soft frown curling on her lips. Gawking down at the musty sword she shakes her head.

“I am fine.” She voices, tired and scooting back. Jon sighs, marching towards to inspect. Despite her response. She hisses when he presses her shoulder.

His brows furrow, the frown of his full lips deepens and there is something so sad seeing him look at her as he does. “I am so sorry, Sansa.” His tone is mellow, yet the fright within the baritone he offers concerns her as well.

“Jon, it was an accident.” She steps back, her heart pounding rather loudly; much to loud for her to be comfortable with. “It would seem I must stay from the training yard. It is alright, I will have Brienne report to me what you have learnt.” His stare lightens, but it is not any happier.

He takes a step back. “You will no longer watch?” Jon seems much more concerned over the aspect of her hiding in the keep than watching the King in the North play with swords. Sansa nods, disregarding the tremor of alarm in his stare- and the falter in his shoulders.

“I must change.” Sansa sighs, looking back down her gown and the sludge caking it. “Be careful.” She hums, placing her palm on his cheek for a short moment before leaving for her solar.

 

* * *

 

A fortnight has passed, and Sansa cannot escape the talk of Jon and his ability to lose his tunic while sparring. Girls become squeamish, loud, and utterly incapable of doing their jobs properly. It would seem she is the same, much to her disappointment.

For here she is now, sitting at her window with lemon cake, wine, and what should have been a finished set of mantles for Rickon and Jon. The thickets of fur lie across her lap as she leans onto the table.

Gawking at the shirt waving in the sweet gusts of wind, barely pinned to the fence, grappled by the pikes of wood hovering above the rest. Rickon sits next to it, keeping it still as he swings his legs. Cheering on Jon, from what she can hear through the open window.

She would have thought him self-conscious of the scar’s he bares. Not for the ones he earned recently or long before, but for the one’s that sink deep into his skin. That still shade crimson and plum, sometimes black.

Especially the one that punctured his heart. While this may have some of the kitchen maids watching in a dream like state, it pains her for some reason. While he may be comfortable with the intrusions that line his torso, it only swells her chest in agony-

No matter how nice it is to see him without his tunic. She will never admit to it, but the sight is nice, and she would rather stare at it all day than the missive’s sent from the dragon Queen and the complaints from Northern houses.

There must be a reason as to why he felt comfortable enough to take it off? Jon has never been one to feel comfortable with the marks protruding from his chest. To display what killed him…She doesn’t understand.

There must be a reason as to why he does so. Perhaps he is undressing for someone? It is the only cause she can think of. Jon is not one to show himself, but if it were for a woman…She does not know, Sansa has never seen him interested in the women in the keep, or anyone really. Even as they traveled the North to check on Northern houses.

Despite how she feels about it, he was doing it for a reason. There must be a reason- she has noticed a pattern. He only took it off in the afternoons, when the sun was just right, and only when the kitchen girl was there.

The one who made Sansa her lemon cakes. Was Jon interested in her? The great King in the North invested in impressing some kitchen maid? Jon wasn’t below such a thing, and she understood, she was quite beautiful. One might say he could just whisk her away.

But Jon wasn’t that sort of man. He’d rather have the other come to him, willing and waiting. For he was kind; he would never force anything on anyone. It’s what made him a King, it is how he earned it, he fought and he won. No matter what he thinks, he had.

Sansa flinches when his eyes dart and meet her own, as if he had expected to see her stationed at her window, watching. Sansa is quick to turn away, focus on the untouched lemon cake before her. A small blush creeps to her face and she keeps her attention on the setting before her.

And for a second, for a split second, she swore he had a small smirk- almost cocky.

She was imagining everything. As she always does.

 

* * *

 

“My lady.” A small servant gasps. Sansa looks her over, folding her arms.

“Where is he?” She demands. “Where is the King?” The women fumbles with her words before directing her to his chambers. She knew, she just knew he would hurt himself. The fool. Sansa saunters into his chambers without so much as a knock.

Jon sits up with a grunt, watching as she closes the door with a frown. When she turns to look him over, she sighs, a boil set in her blood. “What made you think sparring without your tunic was a smart idea?” Sansa gestures to the bruises, and now open wound on his torso.

The same that had him killed.

Jon sits up for his better half, the bandages wrapped about his torso beginning to stain red. Sansa is quick to stand at his bedside, forcing him to lie back down. “Don’t.” She chastises. He sighs, leaning back into the pillows and linen.

Sansa settles on the bedside, scooting so she may be closer. “Truly, what made you think it would be a good idea?” Sansa questions, her voice on the verge of breaking. She never thought he would be hurt in their own courtyard.

It bothers her beyond reason to know he had taken off a damned shirt to impress some kitchen girl, only to be hurt in the process. He shrugs, as if that answered the question.

Sansa leans forward, and by surprising them both, kisses his forehead. Slicking back the clumps of sable locks. He needed to pull it back up if he were to wish to keep himself clean. Sansa pulls back, tilting her head in an affectionate gleam.

Brushing her thumb along his brow, skimming the scar left there as well. He had told her of how it had befallen him- through his adventure beyond the wall. A warg having sent his little bird after Jon after he had attempted to save a man. A sense of honor and duty that got him hurt.

She would frown at the memory of his tale if it weren’t for the way he looked back at her.

“I thought it might bring you back.” He says impishly. She is shocked to find it was not for the kitchen maid. But for her? Odd. And strangely satisfying. “You left and sparring grew…” He cannot seem to find the words as Sansa’s eyes widen in the slightest. He seriously thought undressing would bring her to him?

In the right mind, perhaps. Maybe he thought keeping himself encased in cold rather than his leathers would gather her attention and have her acting as mother hen. Sansa shakes her head. “Jon, you could have just asked. You did not have to undress to get my attention.”

He flushes, it is light, but it is there.

“I suppose.” He responds, hand coming to clasp over her own, where it is it settled between herself and him. His thumb rubbing over her fingers. He is much warmer than she thought he would be, as if he hosted a fire inside. For she is constantly cold, fingers trickled in ice and the rest frost.

The feeling of it all has her heart beating rapidly in her chest, and she thinks she must pull away and leave him to rest, only to hold him back. Enjoying the feel of his hand on her own, more than she should. It felt right when it should feel wrong.

Jon sits up before she can scold him in doing so, his free hand wrapping about the back of her neck. Soothing his fingers through the burnished copper of her hair with a sigh.

When he leans in further, his eyes dark, musty almost, Sansa nearly gasps. The situation having changed more so than she has expected. “May I?”

Sansa, with some sense of acknowledgment of what would happen, nods. Bringing himself in he slots his lips against her own. She had to see for herself, to taste what is wrong, what is sought as betrayal to the old Gods and the new.

It only warms her in a way she thought forever lost. Her hand coming to grab his arm, to keep steady and stern. Sansa had not anticipated to kiss back, but she does, and thoroughly enjoys it. When he pulls away she keeps herself from furthering the action, but is instead tugged down by his side.

His hand stringing through her own, and his other playing with her hair. Sansa sighs into his ministrations. “I should have just hurt myself to begin with.” Sansa looks to him in annoyance.

“You ever hurt yourself again, and I will be furious, Jon Snow.” He laughs, something light and withdrawn.

He smiles down at her. “Of course you will, sweet girl.” Sansa buries her face into the crook of his neck. Hiding the blush creeping to her cheeks. As red as her hair. Tightening her hold about his hand she breathes him in.

And with a soft breath she murmurs “Do not ever hurt yourself again, do you hear me, I cannot bare the sight.” Kissing the top of her head she can feel him nod.

“I promise. Never again.” It was well enough for her.


	24. Lost in Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no9-revolution said: Theory: Jon Snow defeats the Others then disappears. Thousands of years later he becomes a myth and no one knows if he really existed.

***

***

Sarra pleats at her skirts, yawning as Septa Tarla gives a look of disapproval. “Am I boring you, child?” She questions, lifting a slim brow. Quickly, Sarra shakes her head no. Her Septa was currently explaining a drudge of history she had begged for- mother didn’t like it when Septa Tarla gave in and told her tales of the past that sounded all but a fairy tale.

However, Sarra loved it with all her heart.

“No, I wish to hear more.” Sarra says excitedly, her cousin, Jonnel her rolls his eyes. He scoots forward, leaning his chin into his palm.

With a sigh he says “I thought this would be more interesting.” He drones. “Was Jon real or not?” Septa Tarla scoffs, acting as if he had scandalized the God’s themselves. Sarra snickers at the response.

Reaching over she tugs at his sleeves. “Of course he was- and he was in love, was he not?” Sarra pips, jumping in her spot at the edge of her bed. Sarra, while she enjoyed hearing of the battle, loves the story that Tarla always seems to focus on in between.

Sansa Stark and Jon Targaryen, King and Queen in the North, the Red Wolf and the White. It was the most perfect love story ever- like those songs she loves oh, so dearly. They were perfect.

A woman with hair red as fire and a man born from it. Her eyes white as ice and his dark as coal. It was absolutely perfect! Tarla gifts them both a smile, but it is sad, warning in her eyes gleam.

“He was indeed.” Jonnel groans at the reply, rolling away from his lady cousin in annoyance. Sarra pulls at him once more, tugging him to her side, forcing him to listen. Tarla waits patiently as the little lord and lady get comfortable, one against his will.

Sarra smiles brightly. “With Sansa Stark, the Ice Queen.” Sarra chirps. Looking to her brother her eyes grow wide as saucers. “They say that the great Dragon Queen wished to wed him, but he said no, and wed the beautiful Wolf Queen- our great, great-”

“It’s not true.” Jonnel grunts. “It is just a story for children, the white walkers were not real, and we haven’t had a winter in centuries. Grow up, Sarra.” The girl of ten frowns, yanking away from her cousin in a dissatisfied frown.

“You’re just jealous that you could not save the world nor find your true love.” Sarra refuses to look Jonnel in the eyes, turning back to Tarla. With curious eyes she says “You never said what happened, when Jon married the beautiful Sansa.” Sarra adds, folding her arms, legs swinging at the edge of the bed.

Tarla hums. “Perhaps it is best you do not know.” Sarra shakes her head.

“No, you must tell me!” She yelps, jumping up and down once more, Jonnel having yet to leave the chamber. Seemingly interested just as his little cousin.

Tarla smiles, again it is sad, lost. “It was a dance of dragons and wolves, a disastrous battle between ice and fire.” Septa Tarla begins. “Daenerys Stormborn, his aunt, was furious. Demanding that he come to her, they say she had grown mad upon hearing of his marriage. For their line of fire depended on their marriage.” Tarla whispers, eerie and close.

Sarra awe’s, mouth forming a small little o. Jonnel leans in as well, listening carefully. “You see, the Other’s had yet to drop the wall, and Jon had yet to put a babe in the Wolf Queen’s belly. The Mad Queen had not allowed it, as she rained fire down on Winterfell and the North itself in retribution. So many died for their King and Queen…”

Tarla straightens her shoulders. “You see, King Jon could have accepted and there would have been no Great War. But the King Jon loved his lady Sansa, and millions died for it.” Sarra lifts a brow.

“Did they feel sad about it?”

Tarla nods. “I believe so, for the King is good, or he had been.” Jonnel does not look at all satisfied.

“If they were King and Queen, why is there no history of it? No teachings?” Tarla folds her arms, lifting her chin at Jonnel’s comment.

“The world would rather forget of the harsh Winter and live in the Summer, for to think of the dead is terrifying and brings them to life.” Jonnel shivered.

“Tell me more of this…King and his Queen. Did they win?” Jonnel questions.

Tarla nods, watching as both grow enamored with her words. “They did, Daenerys lost her dragons and head, and Azhor Ahai was born once again, and a song of Ice and Fire was rebirthed as well- through their daughter. Arra. Just as it had her father.”

Sarra jumps up and down. “That sounds like my name!”

“It does child.” She frowns. “But they did not receive a happy ending you see, for Sansa had been whisked away by the awful knight, Jorah Mormont.” They both breathe heavily, worried faces deepened in concern. “When Jon found his lady love, she was in a bed of her own blood, pale as snow. A blanket of winter roses framing her dead body- he was gifted his daughter but not his wife.”

Sarra pouts, leaning back. “They say he grew mad, just as his aunt had. Upon fighting the Other’s, he slipped away into the dark and never came back. There are few who claim they had seen him, his sword alight with flame. That he is the one who vanquished the dead.”

Sarra looks to be on the brink of tears. “She died? But she was going to be happy, with her King, her Dragon. He fought for her, but she died anyways?” Tarla nods.

“The world is not a song, lady Sarra, it is not a tale of happy endings and knights. It is death, work, and loss. Little moments of happiness are relished when they can be.” Sarra nods slowly.

“He loved her and she died, because life demands it?” Sarra speak, voice pinched in despair. Tarla nods.

“It is the way.” Jonnel frowns.

Standing her folds his arms. “Do not speak to my cousin of such things. They make her sad and she is too young.” Jonnel glances back at Sarra, who sniffles. “This is not true, do not listen to her. It is time to rest, no?”

Sarra nods. “Goodnight, Jon.” Sarra murmurs his nickname, giving him a short embrace, copper waves pinched between his arms.

He leaves, dragging the Septa with him. Leaving Sarra to her imagination, a dead woman shrouded in a veil of winter roses, and blood seeping into her bed. It is so sad, that she hopes to the old Gods and the new, that this is a false belief. No one deserves such a fate.


	25. They All See It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wxnderstruck asked: I loved your Lyanna Mormont prompt! Can u do another one but from someone's pov? Or multiple POVs. Like Tormund or Davos discussing about Jon's relationship with his sister-cousin. And both of them being in denial. Dany can also be involved. Could be set after Jon's lineage is revealed. I kinda want it to be funny. I can't stop imagining the characters' reaction mirroring Edd's reaction to Tormund and Brienne haha.

***

***

Davos has seen many things. From a woman birthing a child made of shadows, a man burning people alive, to a mockingbird and a she-wolf leading an army of falcon's down upon those meant to kill him. But this, he has never seen something so…difficult

Leaning into his seat he sighs, however he keeps it sealed deep within his throat, for if he were to make it loud the lady of Winterfell would no doubt have sent him away. She and Jon fight, it’s normal, but this was far from so.

They were fighting over whether he should wed the dragon Queen or not. Jon does not wish to, finding it odd- he does not know the woman. Sansa rolls her eyes at any sort of excuse he may come up with, shouting that this is the best course of action.

That anyone with common sense could see that. Jon would not have it, and it only gets worse as the day goes on. He wonders, do they know? Tormund jests that Jon Snow- or he supposes Jon Targaryen knows nothing.

He never took the comment to heart. Now? He thinks it might just be true. This man doesn’t know how to express his feelings without it coming out as wrong and distasteful. And fighting with the woman you love as he does now, well, that’s not the way you should speak with her.

It’s not that Jon is disrespectful, more so towards Sansa than he is with anyone around him. However, Davos has never heard the man raise his voice this loud before.

“Davos.” His name tears him from his thoughts, his brows lifting as he turns his attention to the young woman before him. Cheeks as dark as her hair, strained and furious.

He stands, giving a short bow, before saying “What is it, my lady?” His tone is calming, he hopes, her frown softening in the least.

“Jon must marry.” She says as a matter of fact. Davos nods. It was common knowledge, with no marriage- no children, and Jon would need an heir. “Both he and the Queen need heir’s, it only makes sense that he wed her and rule by her side, does it not?”

Davos, he may regret this later, but for now he did not feel the small voice inside his head screaming he keep his mouth shut. “Truthfully, my lady, it would be more beneficial for the Queen to wed someone from the Westerlands or Riverlands. She would gain their fealty through marriage.” Sansa lifts a brow, delicate in its manner.

And he has to wonder, how has Jon not admitted his feelings yet? The poor man is terrible with words, he understood that, but by the Gods. This girl was obviously attracted to him as well, yes?

“Considering she already has the North as an ally, I do not think wedding her nephew is needed.” He finishes.

Jon, he does not smirk, but there is winning amusement on his features. Unluckily for him, Sansa can see it. She gives him a glare, one that could send a Targaryen’s dragon into hiding. Or all three, if she were to scold the way a mother would. 

Jon is brave man to withstand it as he does. “I told you.” He utters, folding his arms, Sansa groans. As if they are children bickering over who was right and wrong. Sansa does not seem pleased with his comment.

“Then whom is it he should wed? He does not listen to me, houses offer their daughter’s every day and he declines every time.” Sansa is distressed, rubbing her head and turning away from the both of them.

Davos, he takes a deep breath. For what he is about to suggest may cost him his tongue- an over exaggeration. That didn’t keep the fear at bay. “If I may suggest my lady, that you wed the prince?” They both stiffen, and when she veers his way her eyes are ice.

Cold and frozen. Almost lifeless.

It’s a welcome sight to find Jon blushing. It would seem the fanciful tales spread through Winterfell rang some truth. For she was made ice and he of fire. Both having completely different reactions to his comment.

He feels he might need to further his explanation. Simply stating that she marry her cousin did not do him any good. “If the lady of Winterfell were to wed a Targaryen, the crowned prince to the Iron Throne, an alliance stronger than the bond between his grace and the Queen would be made. A Targaryen and Stark merged would benefit the realm- as well as produce heir’s, of course. As we all know, the Queen is unsure if she can birth children. It might be that Jon’s children reign after the Queen leaves the throne.”

He is no longer blushing, but staring intensely at Sansa, who does nothing but scowl. “No.” She blurts, leaving the chamber barren. Jon’s face falls, and with a heavy sigh he nods to Davos, leaving him alone.

Truly. They made this harder than it need be.

 

* * *

 

Daenerys is close to laughing, keeping the small giggles hidden behind her hand as she listens to Davos Seaworth. She enjoys the man’s company, he is kind, and is wiser than she believes she will ever be.

Upon hearing his story she nearly chokes back on her wine. “And she said no?” She asks, after a moment of calming herself. Davos nods, seemingly unaware of what he should do. She snickers once more, her hand clasping around her lips.

Well, this is not what she expected. When Daenerys had first arrived, she had been surprised to find that they were not already wed. For they acted as if they were. She never thought of suggesting an alliance through marriage with her beloved nephew.

Not only was she confident in his loyalty, but she could see just how much he adored the wolf maiden, a lovely woman in her own right. The winter rose, they call her, and there was more truth to it than lie. He followed her around as if he were a lost puppy. Not that he would admit it, nor would the lady of Winterfell.

“Well, that is a bit of a let down.” Daenerys hums, Missandei sipping on her wine as to keep the laughing from sputtering out once more. Ser Davos grunts in agreement. “Well, they have sworn their fealty to me. Perhaps I could reign some influence upon them.”

Daenerys wanted her nephew happy, and surprisingly, she wanted the lady Sansa Stark to be happy as well. She hardly knew the girl, but she and the lady got along together grandly. 

Taking a soft sip of her wine she leans into her seat, her hand coming to lay on Drogon’s head. The large beast having been sitting atop the battlement so he may be near his mother. Ser Davos bows. A small smile lifting his lips.

 

* * *

 

Tormund would have laughed aloud at their faces. Sansa didn’t look so much as furious as embarrassed. And for Jon? The King Crow did nothing but bow and accept his Queen’s demands. She had claimed that she wished for the North to stay close allies until she past into another life, leaving the throne barren.

And that meant she wanted a marriage. Sansa had almost appeared proud, as if she had won her fight with Jon, even if there had been something kin to loss and regret hidden beneath her pride. But then she had said it. Said that Sansa would wed Jon to keep the peace.

Since the battle with the Other’s, every lord has been attempting to send their daughter’s to wed Jon. The prince that was promised. The long lost son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The dragon in the North. The white wolf. The song of ice and fire. He almost has as much titles as the Queen does.

And Tormund won’t bother to name them all, for there are more and he already feels tired.

After Sansa leaves Jon, Tormund waltz towards him, a large grin plastered to his lips. He clasps a large hand around his shoulder. “You got her.” Tormund laughs. “You finally got your princess.” It’s supposed to be a jest.

Joyful.

But the sullen prince does nothing but frown. Tormund feigns surprise. Of course this man would frown the moment he’s promised to the woman he loves. She didn’t exactly give him the reaction he may have wanted.

He shrugs. “Aye.” Tormund rolls his eyes. This wouldn’t do any good. She obviously left out of sheer embarrassment. She’s likely waiting for him to follow after her.

That’s what these Southron women do all the time. “Go talk to her.” He urges. Jon shrugs once more and with a huff he pushes the prince. “Go, before I steal her away.” Tormund warns. Jon, he glares, but moves away.

Entering the Keep in search for his betrothed.

 

* * *

 

Brienne has never seen two people as happy as Jon and Sansa. They dance, they laugh, and she feeds him lemon cake. He whispers in her ear and tells her jokes, in the end Sansa would chide him with a bright smile.

She is glad they have finally come together. She had felt it might all lead to this, the day Sansa had arrived at Castle Black.

Brienne does not know how, but she did. The way she felt something off about the late King Robb and his wife, Jeyne. Both clenched at her stomach, however they were entirely different. There for one reason or another.

She should have never left the first time. She learned from that. Brienne would never leave Sansa’s side either. Even as she gave permission that she be allowed to leave.

That ‘her’ Jon would protect her. Folding her arms she beams. They would live happily, she can see it all right now, in this very moment. They both deserved it. The both of them having gone through more than Brienne herself.

When the bedding is called upon, it is Jon who threatens lord Cerwyn for even suggesting they undress his wife. They leave together, Jon lifting her from the ground once they believe themselves to be out of sight.

Brienne takes a large sip of wine, settling down into her chair.

“Knew it would happen.” She is startled, looking down to find Tormund. Wearing a sloppy, hazed grin. She groans.

“I suppose.” And with that, she hurries away. Yes, she had many feelings, and was certain the man called Giantsbane would steal her if he could. Though she highly doubted he could lift her, let alone win in a fight against her.

And she’d rather keep it that way.


	26. Like a Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt. I wrote this after watching sad video's about dogs. Yeah, I'm a horrible person. I know that. Enjoy. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones

***

***

The throb shaking down her legs worsens the moment she opens her eyes, the dull candle light seeping in and filling the dark corners of her mind. It is an odd sensation, to open them after what felt like an eternity, to drink in the luster now glittering about, no matter how lackluster.

The sable memory of what transpired is nothing but a night terror, slowly blinking away the sleep, Sansa sighs out in a leaden melancholy. For the chamber she occupies feels nothing but that. Dreary, alone, dark without presence.

Except there is one, to the side of her where she lies, the furs mounted above the only warmth she receives- for the coldness that sits is frowning. A grey blur of something unknown and thoroughly tormented.

Her throat rasps, scratches, and her mouth tastes of dust when she opens it only to seal it once more. She turns her head, and the mere action leaves her exhausted. Sansa finds a burrow of dark curls and a bowed head, shoulders cross and strained. A slight heave leaves the figure, and he is letting out a short, perhaps choked, sob- something is wrong.

That is her first conclusion, for this should be a joyful moment, if she can remember what little she should. The man she recognizes as Jon, he coughs, he whimpers, his hands trembling as they clasp in an attempt to keep the tremor at bay. Sansa would tilt her head, if she had the energy. She would ask what is wrong, if she could move her lips and speak out without hurting herself.

Her husband, her sweet King, down in a fit of glum and a blue addresses him as a whole. Sansa’s finger twitches, and it is then she remembers the pain squeezing between her legs, leaving the rest of her sore; especially the now flat of her stomach.

_Now-_

Sansa does not have to look down to feel the emptiness, she does not have to examine to feel. Her fingers inch towards her stomach, lying atop it, the roundness that should be present now gone. Yes, she remembers well now.

She had her child. Their heir. Sansa can barely make out the squeals, the ear shattering cries for his mother- the maester exclaiming it to be a boy. A haze that passed by all too fast, before she faltered to rest.

Yes, that is good. More than good, they have finally started their family, and no one could hurt this one as it had before. Jon would protect him, as would Sansa, she would be the mother lady Stark was to her. And Jon would be a father as Ned Stark was to them. Sansa near smiles, a fit of glee withering her pallid lips.

Nights of dreaming, of wishing and praying, and they finally got it. Sansa exhales loudly, seemingly grabbing his attention. She can feel his stare, however her concern lies in searching for her babe. If not in her arms, nor his, perhaps the crib Jon had built? She can see it, but it sits empty. Without a bundle of joy to fill it’s linens and fur.

It is then, Sansa with a frown, looks to Jon. Slow, so she may account for the rest of the apartment. She has not searched it all, and she could not get up- their son could be with the wet nurse. She remembers telling Jon that she did not want that.

Mayhaps she did not wake in time and it had to happen, that is why he looks to her as he does. With the furrow of his brow, the crown of his lips shaped downwards, the sheer tremble that ripples throughout him. The once broad form crushed under whatever sorrow has drowned him, and is now kissing up her spine.

Something is wrong. So very wrong. He should be happy, despite if he may have made her angry.

“Jon.” She manages to whisper out, and he winces. As if her voice may claw out his eyes, if they were not already painted crimson and watered down. His cheeks, she now notices, are burnt in irritation.

He leans forward immediately, reaching over and taking one hand in his own. “Sansa.” He murmurs, his voice strained. Unlike anything she has ever heard. Sansa has heard him shout, cry, laugh and all of the above. But this? This was not him. To sound so heartbroken.

She does another examination of the chamber, the best she can without turning the rest of her body. She glances back to him, frowning. “Where is our child?” She asks, her voice weak, as it should be.

Mother always spoke of her lost voice after birthing her first child, she could only assume it would be the same for her. Jon tightens his grip about her delicate hand, squeezing so hard she thinks it might burst. His thumb rubbing in the way that always seems to sooth her.

Her mind leads to the worse. It is blocked however, for she is adamant in refusing the turmoil back inside these walls. They have been happy, so very happy, this would be the day they had their own family. Recreating what they lost and what they could gain.

Jon shakes his head, leaning further in to hide his face. Sansa tries again. “Where is he?” A soft whimper leaves Jon, pulling his shoulders down in despondance. A heavy weight craning him forward.

“San.” He mutters. “San, he did not…” Sansa shakes her head, as realization cakes her without purpose. Her eyes widen at his voice, tired, alone, just as she now feels.

Her nails carve into his fist. “Where is my son.” She utters once more, disbelief plummeting her heart into the faint abyss she once cradled. A darkness she held close, so she would never love, never care, only hide. It is open again. She can feel it widening, bursting to life. As she herself dies under the force she is now pushed into the bed with. Her heart a heavy thing she no longer wants. “Jon, where is my child.” She repeats, warning.

He refuses to look up, hand tightening further, if that were at all possible. He does not sob out, he does not reach for her, only hinders under her stare and falls useless. Made of stone and loss. Barricaded in these four walls of growing despair. His already reaching the sky, her own rooted and ready.

“Where is he!” She manages, short of a yell, slight of a scream. She has no strength, she cannot pull him forward, demand a better answer. To hear the bitter truth. Does she? Does she want to hear?

A sting aligns behind her nose and eyes, souse readying itself to paint her cheeks pink and rotten. “Where is our son!” Sansa screams out. “Where is he!” She tries to pull her hand away, only to have him tug her forward, bringing her hand up to kiss her knuckles. Sansa near growls, hisses, yanking as he keeps her close to his cheeks, is wet lips, his body writhing in mourning.

Shaking his head again and again, she fights the urge to wail, however she does allow the tears to fall. Her eyes to become clouded in its transparency.

“Sansa…” He pleads, for what she does not know, it only hurts. It hurts so much. She is grey, just as he, and gives in. The mere remembrance of what he could have looked like- with her red hair and his grey eyes, to have the Stark look or the Tully, perhaps even the Targaryen. It is a rush of what she know’s, and denies she has lost. “San...He is gone.”

She shakes her head in denial. “No!” She shrieks. “I saw him, I saw him Jon, he was-” Jon shoots forward, pulling her head into his chest, his tears dampening the thick of her hair as her’s do to his doublet.

The agony washes over, a tidal wave of depression slinks as the wish to drop from a cliff sings. No longer is she filled with joy, but loss, the loss of her child, her family, her husband that holds her. The loss of her life that never even began.

Sansa sinks into him, fingers biting at his worn leather doublet, pulling and stretching as her breathing comes shallow. In a panic shrill she tries to pull away, he keeps her still- she does not want to be touched, to be held, and yet she does. She needs it. Sansa needs him. She needs Jon.

She needs him now more than ever.

“It hurts.” She sobs out. “It hurts, Jon, make it stop.” He rocks her, cradles her as he would a child, their child and it repeats. It repeats over and over, the squeals he let out. How is it possible? How? Why would the Gods do this to her? After what she has gone through. After everything she has lost. They still drag her through the mud? To throw her to the wolves, lions, snakes, dragons and krakens- to make what should have been life like a funeral.

It is horrid, terrible, and it clenches deep inside until she feels empty, gone from this world with no purpose. She had carried him, for eight moons she had felt the babe kick, move, make her hungry and sick. And to lose him? To hurt her and Jon this way is another night terror come true.

A funeral, a battered body of limbs, so frail and small. A neck sliced and a head lost, replaced with that of a wolf, daggers in and out just as betrayal sinks in- all of it in the wake. It is a curse, this family, a terrible curse.

“I know.” His voice shakes. Just as his fingers do in her hair, stroking as she had once done to him. “I know.”

But do the Gods?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such a terrible person, please forgive me!


	27. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was just made for fun. This is just a snippet of my dream outcome. I’ve watched a few theories and believe in the end, it will be Dany who is the main villain. As much as I love her it sort of seems inevitable. Please enjoy! As I said this was just for fun, so I apologize if there are any mistakes. And this isn’t really shippy, so beware.

***

***

Daenerys had not expected to get along in the North or Riverlands. She had been proven right. The moment she entered the territory swords were raised and threats were made. Dany had made an attempt to understand but the infuriation got the better of her.

A man or two may have lost their heads in rebellion. A response had been made, this is her land and they would obey, or so help her they would burn in their defiance- the proclamation gathered the attention of their King and his hand- Daenerys is well aware his hand is heir to the Riverlands, and intended to speak with both.

Now she sits with the two of them in a bellowed tent, her house colors heated under the candles glimmer. Taking a long sip of her wine she listens, both her hand and their King, Jon Snow, converse. 

They have met once and the boy claimed he held respect for her hand, now they argue. Dany is to rule over the seven kingdoms, as Tyrion claims, and that meant the North included. He does not wish to give way the North, and his sister’s land, the Riverlands. Dany would understand, but she has no intention to release this part of her kingdom to these men.

Dany’s eyes flicker to the left of the tent, a woman who sits beside the King- his hand. She is lovely, Daenerys has noted, with auburn waves she is not accustomed to and eyes of ice. The girl looks soft, perhaps confused, only observing but never speaking.

The Queen finds herself staring at her more than once, as she has found Asha doing the same. Tyrion had warned her this girl has been through the seven hells and back. A fragile thing they must be gentle with.

Daenerys can see it now, in the frown she wears, and is startled when Jon raises his voice. It seems to calm everyone, the tension snapped as Sansa watches Jon in what appears to be fright. Jon halts his voice mid-sentence and tilts his head. For a beat he appears confused, only to have it wash away as he gives a glare to Tyrion.

Varys leans in next to her ear. “Your worship.” Dany gives him a short stare from the corner of her eyes, taking another sip of her wine, waiting for him to continue. “I believe if you brought in lady Tyrell she might feel comfortable, the lady Stark. The tension might die down.”

“Did lady Stark know Olenna?” Dany whispers.

“She did, your grace. The lady Sansa was close with their family. She near wedded lord Willas.” Dany nods for him to leave and retrieve the Queen of thornes.

However, a cough is sounded, Jon rising from his seat in irritation- Dany was told he was a calm, solemn man. He seems less so than what gossip made of him. Just as she heard he was brought back from the dead. Dany believes she should not listen to it as well, but the world has not believed her unburnt, even if she is.

Perhaps he had risen and the changes are applicable now?

Varys pauses, eyes land on the delicate hand grabbing at the King’s sleeve, Sansa lifting a slim brow. He exhales deeply before seating himself. “I will not give the North. We have fought too hard to release it now.” Jon complains. “And I must admit, I do not trust you, your grace.” They sound his voice but not his words. Who must have told him to say that? Or convince him of this?

Daenerys nods. “I understand, but this is my kingdom, my land, not yours.” All eyes land on her, those from all sides, Dany is shrill under the stare that is the Kingslayer.

She wonders if he is next to burn, if the North will allow it. She would take if she must, no matter who his allegiance lies with- she is certain the lady Stark would not mind, however she is on a string ready to snap. She must be careful around these people less she want it to be difficult to keep her people.

It is silent, a thunderous applause that the hearts amend, she can feel the displeasure it shakes into her council.

After a beat, the lady Sansa speaks. “If I may speak.” Her voice is like ivory, soft and sweet. Perfumed just as she. Dany would not lie, she finds herself attracted, but she must keep to herself. The Queen did not wish to frighten her. Daenerys smiles fondly, nodding. The girls leans forward. “I wish to tell a story.”

Now this is intriguing. Dany sets her glass down, crossing both legs and nodding her way. Awaiting the story eagerly. She has heard the lady Sansa loves stories, as said by Tyrion, a man who used to be husband to the beautiful lady.

It might break the uneasy feel emoting the tent. Dany wishes for nothing more than that. It might even help Jon make his mind and offer up his land without war. As Tyrion has said, the girl does as others wish to keep herself and those she loves safe.

Evidently, she understands. The beauty must.

“As both you and I have heard, your grace, there is a saying made of Targaryen blood.” Dany quirks her lips.

Folding her arms she cocks a brow. “I have, perhaps, however there are many.” The reply is expected and the lady does not smile as she thought she might. When Dany responds most offer a gleam. It upsets her, she wanted to see this lovely creature smile.

“Well, I am certain you have heard the saying.” It feels as if the candles have dimmed the moment she opens her mouth once more. “The moment a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin, and the world holds its breath, awaiting the side it will land upon. Madness or greatness.” Dany has heard of it, once.

“Some believe madness and greatness share the coin, one side split for the both of them.” Curious, Dany turns to look at Tyrion, looking just as confused as herself she suspects. “Once greatness has been achieved, madness finds it’s way through the cracks.”

“And what does this have to do with our landsmeet?” Daenerys questions.

Sansa, a peculiar little thing, tilts her head. “There was a girl once, in Kings Landing, who loved stories with all her heart.” Dany lets the lack of response slide, due to her query. “She hated this one, for she loved tales of beauty and songs. This one did not live up to the romantic hymns that conquered all. The greatness always preferred. The ideal enhanced the moment this child heard of a Queen, lovely as the sun and stars across the Narrow Sea.”

Dany understood now. The girl was speaking of her, the mother of dragons, Sansa lived in Kings Landing when word of her crown came. Is this her way in convincing Jon to give what she wants without a fight? It would be best for the North. Her dragons were hungry.

“A woman unburnt, birthed again in that of flame, risen beside her three dragons. Hope had lifted the girl, for she was forced to live with a vile little boy, a false King.” The Kingslayer stiffens, as does Tyrion. “A woman promised to save the world and take her throne- she had saved cities, freed slaves, she was a hero. What could this little girl want more than that? A hero to take her away? Just like the songs.”

Jon is watching keenly, hands clasped as his chin settles between. Daenerys finds herself tense, attracted, and leans in.

“That little girl, after a time, grew up. She found that the stories of hatred, madness, all of it was true. Not the songs. Not the romance. But the horror. It is then she found to live in the real world. It had been so long since she had heard of this Dragon Queen since then. You see, this girl fought, swam in the blood she brought upon her land to earn her living. A castle of snow she had won- it was only then, a moon later, she had heard of the horrors repeated. The same she disregarded.”

Daenerys does not interrupt, even if she might, the entirety is focused on the lady. And Dany loves to hear her voice. Smooth as silk. “A Queen that took, conquered, destroyed. A Queen that did not compromise. The terror that fled across the Narrow Sea arrived in Westeros, and with this Queen came an armada beyond belief. A hundred thousand men backing her claim, and the land was pillaged, raped, burned, the land bled under her touch.” Her tone is no longer soft, changing immensely.

It throws Daenerys off, as it does Tyrion and Varys.

“This little girl did not like the sound and knew soon she would come for her home.” Sansa leans into her seat. “The saying kept this girl right, straight, she knew what to expect. You see, this Queen has achieved her greatness. And now the world awaits her madness. A foreign danger the land despises, does not want nor need. One might think this Queen different, after everything she has done, how could she change?”

Dany is unsure of where this leads but she does not like it.

“This little girl know’s madness when she see’s it. She has grown from it. It is a chaos she has learned from, a ladder she has climbed.” Varys goes rigid and Dany’s heart plummets under the ministration. “Tell me, your grace, when you watched the innocents burn before you, screaming and crying for their children, their loved ones, did you feel remorse? Or anger that they did not bow to a Queen they do not want?”

“Excuse me?” Dany says, breathless.

“Did you enjoy it? As your father and brothers before you, did you enjoy the sight of those burning under your reign? Or do you still pretend to be as righteous as you claim yourself to be. A Queen with morals you obviously do not have.” Sansa then looks to Tyrion. His eyes wide in shock- mayhaps shame?

Dany frowns. “They were-”

“You have no excuse in burning people alive.” Sansa cuts in, eyes as sharp as steel. “Tell me, why should I give a mad, power hungry Queen my country?”

“I am not mad.” Daenerys exclaims, furious. She stands to be above, to hold her power mighty, tall even, eyes of violet set aflame. “I have come home, this is my land, and the Iron Throne is mine. It has been since I was a girl.”

“If we are to speak of the past, then you are wrong.” Sansa clips. “You lost entitlement to the throne the moment your father burned people alive for game, you lost rights to the North when he burned my uncle and grandfather, when your brother kidnapped and raped my aunt.” When she rises, Daenerys finds she is taller than anticipated. “You have shown erratic behavior, contempt in your own people, and have been driven by a power you can barely contain. And you dare ask for the North- the Riverlands?”

She has no response. “I will not have a mad Queen in the North, in the Riverlands, let alone the throne, you will receive no help from my lands nor people- a populace you have harmed as well under mine and the Kings rule.” Sansa knots a brow, eyes glaciers howling in pique. A warning. “I have played this game much too long, I know you and your kind. You lust for power and it is never enough. If you wish for a war, you will earn one, but you will most certainly lose. I will not give my home to another tyrant.” Sansa gives one last hard stare, looking at the council behind her, before turning to leave.

Daenerys fumes, shouting “And what will you do when my dragons burn you down?”

Sansa pauses at the flap of the tent, turning to her “Just as men, they can be slain, my lady.” A small smile perks and Daenerys finds herself trembling in fury. “Or, when the time comes, we will see where their loyalty lies. I wonder, what will they do when they find another of your name before them, demanding.” Sansa glances down at Jon. “The rightful heir to the throne and father to dragons, I would assume.”

She about leaves, before adding “If you have not left by dawn, I will cast you down and give the throne to its rightful heir. I do not care if you rule the South, it is a lonely land I care none for, but you will leave the North and Riverlands alone.”

Jon rises from his seat, and it is then she see’s it, Viserys hard frown and the crease of his brow. He had looked familiar yet so distant, dead almost- no, that was _impossible_. It is a _lie_. A fallacy made pretty. Jon does not bow as he should, only follows Sansa out. A saunter in victory.

Daenerys had not expected it. The agitation, the boil in her blood simmers and the need to tear that girl apart shines.

The throne is hers. _Hers._ She would show what it meant to have power and she will take the North from them. Even if that means she burn it to the ground.

She is Queen, mother of dragons, Khaleesi of the Khalsaar, Queen of Mereen and breaker of chains- she will destroy them all and take her throne.

And that girl will be last to watch them all fade from her touch.


	28. To Fade (Smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cruyffsbeckenbauer said: I have another one :) Rickon was never handed to Ramsay. Jon and Sansa know R+L= J. Sansa and Jon never go back to Winterfell. They go somewhere else. Somewhere warm. They realize it is easier to tell others they are married then say they are siblings. For two people who have never been close they are surprisingly a great married couple. (smut if possible)

***

***

_"Where will you go?”_

The question slithered in mind the moment they sat before the fire. A quickened fear rampaging in her chest, a temperament of despair. To be left alone once again would be a death sentence. The sweet taste might have sated her, but now she knew warmth as never before, she was unwilling to let go of it’s peace.

The fear was real, alive, it wiggled between her bones and left her a rigid mess. A seconds wait as he roamed her form with a perspective unknown to her. Unknown with what lied in those Stark grey eyes.

What he has seen. What he has been through. His battles, the wars, the revelations made in his betrayal. He would leave her be. Sansa could feel it. Just as everyone else he would abandon her.

Never has she been kind to him. Why would he begin, start with her? When she had never offered the same long ago?

And then he had said it. Perfect, kind, gentle and strong, Jon had said it.

_“Where will we go?”_

In that moment, the graze of longing, the tight consolation that sings inside- she can breathe. Finally breathe as the world decides to give her a space to exhale and inhale. To taste the air he does.

Sansa wants to fight for Winterfell, but she is tired, and so is Jon. So very tired. Sansa is willing to go South, she is willing to go West or East. As long as they earn their long awaited rest, she will follow him to the ends of the earth.

Where she is safe. Because he is Jon. He would never hurt her. Not like Joffrey, Cersei, Ramsay or Petyr. He would be the gentle heart she has always known him to be.

No matter the pain he has gone through. He pinches the horn, the mead inside swashing as he leans forward, contemplating. After she asks where they are to escape. For he speaks of the undead and Sansa is unwilling to stay where they can touch her.

Where they can touch him.

“Essos.” He murmurs. Fingers stained white in hope he turns to look at her, pleading she agree with the hurried supplement he has just provided. “The undead do not swim. They run. They battle. But as I have seen they do not swim.”

Sansa takes a sip of the soup. Pod had it made for her. He is a good cook, she must thank him the next she see’s him.

Setting it down, she swallows the fright, the purity in it, and nods in agreement. “If that is where you wish to escape.”

It is in the way he stares that makes her self conscious. As she is concerned there is something she missed when bathing herself. Something Jon is too kind to point out. A scar, perhaps? Something that cannot be washed away. Or a scrap of dirt clinging, stubborn in its point to be seen.

Jon sighs. “I want home. But I need peace. You need peace. Is that not what you want?” He asks after a beat.

Sansa shrugs. “I want to be safe. Winterfell is not safe, it is a night terror.” Sansa scrunches at the skirts of her scrubby gown. “If Essos is where we will find comfort, then I am more than willing to make the travel.” Jon nods.

“Essos it is then.”

Essos it is.

 

* * *

 

The ship is an old, creaky thing. That sways with each and every tidal without premise. Grizzly old men take care for it, take it from Westeros to Volantis in the matter of weeks. She and Jon had managed to earn themselves passage.

Sansa had used a ring, ruby and silver, they loved it. Jon never asks whom it belonged to, because he knows. Jon has seen it along the slim fingers of lady Catelyn, who gave it to Sansa the day she left for Kings Landing.

It is the only thing she had left of her mother, other than memory, and now it belongs to the ship’s captain. Of course, apparently, it was not enough. For they were bringing a large beast with them, and neither were willing to leave Ghost in Westeros.

In the end, Jon offered his services in retaining the boat. Steering the ship and cleaning the boards. Sansa has said she would help, only to be turned away by Jon, told to stay in the small cabin just beneath deck.

For the way the men gawk at her are barbaric. If not for Ghost, who is a constant at her side, she has no doubt one would have tried to take her from behind. A ‘cost’ they would call it.

Sansa sits on the bed, a small bundle of sheet, linen, and furs to the side for Jon- Sansa near offered to sleep there, or for the two of them to share the bed, but he turned down any source that could mean her discomfort.

Ghost lies at the edge, licking at her ankles, her eyes leaden on the wood above. Each creak, slam and smash come from above. Smooth sailing had not been expected, and this storm was prepared for.

She does not worry for herself but Jon, who is above helping the men with the sails. The ship rocks and she tucks herself in, curling onto her side. Ghost shifts with her and settles his large head on the hilt of her hip.

Sansa encourages the thought that if Ghost does not concern himself with what is above, neither should she. For the beast has a connection with Jon that Sansa never will. He can sense Jon’s distress, ease, and everything inbetween.

And when she drifts into a faraway place, deep in a drowning world where Robb, mother and father are all alive. A place when she was happy, and doesn’t take her life for granted, she hurts. A time she learns to be kind and treats those around her with the utmost care.

She wakes to Jon sneaking in, an attempt to be silent but Ghost shakes her awake. Jon pauses, watching her with the little light obtained in the tiny room.

“Did I wake you?” He whispers, bringing up a small lantern to see her better. And in her disgrace she see’s his. He is soaked, salt water drenching him from head to toe.

Sansa sits up, shaking her head. “No.” Quickly, she lifts her covers and saunters towards him. Jon does not flinch as she might have expected him to. Sansa would have, with the pace she used.

Both of them being broken, naturally she thought he might react as she does. However, she realizes that they act differently to the drought in their lives.

Instead he watches, deep grey eyes suffocating her with every flicker, every blink. They look so much like fathers. Soothing in every sense there is. Careful, she dabs the cloth on his face, before bringing it over his head. Draping it to his hair she readies to shake.

Just as she watched mother do to Robb, Rickon and Bran. Sometimes even Arya, when she begged. Jon stops her, his hand clasping over her own. “I can do it. Sleep.” Sansa takes a step back.

She doesn’t know if she can, even so, she nods and makes her way back. Ghost hopping back up after he’s received his attention, slinking onto her hip once more. In the dim light, Sansa keeps her eyes on him, the cloth damp from his hair, and the skin of his neck.

He sneaks a peak on her, nervous, and Sansa takes notice of the moist tunic. With a frown she says “You can change, Jon, it will not unnerve me.”

Hesitant, he tugs at it’s edges. Lifting the shirt overhead, Sansa cannot find it in herself to look away. Her attention drawn to the scars battering his torso, from his chest to the mysterious navel just above his trousers.

They look painful, the mere sight makes her sick, to acknowledge this is what killed him. She had not been there for this death, thank the Gods. Sansa doubt’s she would have lived long enough to see him revived. All hope would have been lost, to see him cold and blue.

Without a tower the Wall itself would have been fine enough to throw herself from. The thought is bitter, but without him she was not safe. Ramsay would have found her again, he would have hurt her and she cannot imagine what he would have done once he got his hands on her.

It takes everything within her not to cry. Instead she sniffles, silent, and buries her head into the pillow. After a moment or so, she can hear him shifting beside her on the floor. The coldness is unkind and she moves towards the edge.

“Are you awake?” She asks, after a beat.

“No.” He murmurs. She would smile if not for the uncommon twist in her gut. Was that humor? In a place like this, after everything they have been through, he has given a jest? So unlike the Jon Snow she knows.

Sansa does not smile, but there is a well of something light in her chest. Something better than whatever heavy displeasure curled before. “Can…Can we talk? Until I fall asleep? I know it is a lot to ask of you, after-”

“Of course, Sansa.” Relief sweeps through her entire body and it is now she smiles. He has worked from dawn ‘till dusk and he still tries to make her comfortable.

She must do the same for him. She just did not know how to. “Thank you.” Sansa sighs.

It is then, throughout the night, they speak of Essos. Of their lives to be, of what they could be and how to reinvent themselves. They do not bring up home, family or the past. It is too much to even think of. Better to plan the future than to live in the past.

Sansa finds, listening to his voice, she can sleep with ease. But she wants to listen, to hear his baritone slink in her ears and vibrate, and waits for him to drift before she can do so.

He fades. Just as she does, they fade into the darkness. Sansa cannot help but wonder, if this must be the best way to leave.

To fade.

 

* * *

 

The docks smell of rotten fish, salt, and people. Dirty people. But it is nothing compared to the taint that is Kings Landing. Where the odor could make you weep, if you inhale for much too long. A part of the city the songs always fail to mention.

Sansa is led by Jon, who maneuvers through people the way a fish does a stream. Pushing gently, but rough enough to have them move.

He holds her hand, pulling her along so he does not lose sight of her and she him. The moment they left the boat was the very second he held on and never let go. The way he had the morning they left castle black, when Sansa had told Brienne to find Arya- and when she did, to bring her to Sansa.

For Brienne was the only one who knew where Sansa would be. Brienne could send a letter, or she would arrive with Arya in tow. Either way, the present that is her sister was enough to steer Brienne away. Along with the knowledge a respectful man, such as Jon, would be looking after her.

Her eyes train on the back of his head, a mass of sable curls all tied into a loose knot. Much the same as father had. However Jon’s hair was much shorter than fathers.

He never did explain why he cut his hair. Not that it mattered, Sansa supposes. What did was where he was taking her. She knows Jon has never gone to Volantis, how did he know the streets, the passageways and the people?

It took longer for Sansa to realize than she wished. He was blending in. A lord raised bastard and a lady would not excuse themselves nor demand entrance. They searched for it themselves. And if they were to stay hidden. An echo of once was.

It may repeat but eventually they would fade. That was the intention, was it not?

They wander for a good hour before Jon pits to a stop, near a brothel much to her displeasure. She almost wants to ask if he wants to go in, so he may ‘exhaust himself’. Even if she is certain the battle they’ve ruined already has.

“You know how to sing?” Jon asks, turning to her with a lift of the brow. Sansa tilts her head.

Of course she knew how to sing. It was apart of being a lady, all ladies knew to at least hum. “Yes, of course.” Sansa doesn’t understand the question. Why he even asks. Until she reevaluates her surroundings. Especially the brothel.

Sansa shakes her head. “Jon, I will not go in there.” She says defiantly, taking a step back, as if he had snapped at her.

Jon takes a look back, frowning before pivoting before her. The hurt plain in his face, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. “No Sansa, not…There’s a tavern. Just down there.” He points, the small sign hidden between a thicket of trees and men.

Sansa watches intensely, before returning to Jon with a look of apology. “Sorry…I am not used to…This is all very new and I…It is hard I suppose, and…” She can’t spit the words out. As if they have crept inside her throat and made a home there, intent on staying, never to leave.

Jon furrows his brows before he connects the dots. A pass of fury ticks at his hue, but it is long gone before she can recognize the look.

“You needn’t apologize. There is nothing to forgive.” Sansa knows she will learn to love and hate his kindness. For it will grow, never ending and she will live with it for the rest of their lives. Or at least Sansa hopes.

She has no intention on leaving him behind and she can only assume the same for him.

Sansa squeezes his hand, the one he never let her go with, and scoots close to him. “We shall see if this tavern is in need of a bard, then?” What better place to start? They are new and it seemed well established.

It is better than nothing. It was a smart move, Sansa acknowledges, and gives Jon a sad simper- unable to give him a full smile. One he deserves. One she knows she needs to feel. A small shiver runs down her spine at the thought of him smiling.

As he did at the Wall. Clean and bright, the sorrow lapsed behind the joy of her presence. The way hers had around him. He forgave her then too, when she did not deserve it. He is too good. Too kind. She fears it will kill him…

It already has. Only Jon would not let it change him, ruin his expectation of human life, it is foolish. But it is grand. An innocence made rare, Sansa wished she still had that in her. But after Ramsay and Petyr, she is afraid that will never happen.

He nods, hand tightening just as hers had. “Perhaps they’ll give mutton and drink for your entertainment?” Sansa presses into his shoulder, and for the first time she doesn’t feel ill under the contact.

Sansa does not have the urge to swipe him away, to kick and bite and scream. Only to lean in, hold to the warmth, bury her nose into the crook of her neck and hide in the walls of his arms. A shield made her life.

“I hope so.” Sansa chimes. “I’m starved.”

 

* * *

  
Her name is Alayne now, and Jon has named himself Rodrick.

Alayne became a minstrel. For a time she had sang in the tavern, until she found out the brothel gives more gold in exchange for a sweet hymn. The mistress of the establishment invited Alayne to sing for her whores.

A nice sum in exchange for her voice. Alayne agreed immediately, it would be twice as much as she made now. Not only that, but offered stay in the brothel. Something the tavern had not allowed.

Not to mention, Rodrick had worked much too hard- working with crops, fishing and the repairs in the town at random. Though most of the time she finds him in the smithy, working on steel and iron. Or wielding it for a price.

His talent for a blade recognized and paid for. Rodrick only did so when the man deserved it. Honor is what held him from taking one’s life without impairment. For that she respected him all the more.

This little life they have made, it is kind to her, and she is the happiest she’s been in a long time. Finding herself smiling more than once a day. She’s had the women tell her she should work as a whore.

The men would kill to have her in a bed, writhing. Alayne had denied the offer- and when they pushed, Rodrick intercepted, much to her surprise. The women made fun of him, with how he held her behind his arms and watched with a glare she’d never seen him wear.

Oh, how they teased, until he named her his wife. His ‘property’. The women shut up and left them to their lonesome. Sansa did not ask, she never questioned, and the both found it easier to be wife and husband than to be brother and sister.

Men disregarded the best they could after that. Of course, the women did not mind that Rodrick belonged to another, no matter how he declined them all. Alayne can remember now, as she plays with the cheap harp, the bout of jealousy she felt one night.

When Rodrick had been speaking with a woman. Not much too friendly, of course, that did not change the precarious pitter in her heart and how it strained. Each beat a jab, forceful and uncomfortable.

Alayne decides to not let it bother her, even as she begs inside that he never speaks to the unknown woman again. For Rodrick, Jon, they are hers. He is her brave knight. Not some seamstress who happened to take a liking to him.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think of Winterfell? What we could have done?” She is Sansa now, the question belonged to the daughter of Winterfell. Not a brothel keepers bard.

It is Jon who looks up from his sword, the wet stone coming to halt under her stare. She can see him thinking, deciding on whether he be honest or not.  

Jon gives a noncommittal shrug. “It was my home. Sometimes.” He is quick to return to his sword, the slick sliding of stone against steel. Sansa cannot peel away as she should, return to her dress she is currently creating.

Longing, Sansa continues to gawk until she speaks up once more, the silence unbearable. “You do not think of it night and day?” Sansa questions. A brow lifted in accusation.

Jon halts his ministrations, just for a breath, and continues. The question new, different, and there for them both to hear. “No.”

It is hard to believe this. She knows it is because if she cannot forget how can he? Of course Winterfell must mean something else to him, as it does to her. A place of horror and sentiment, and him? She will never know, that is her assumption.

That does not stop his answer from making her…What? Angry? Irritated? They grew up there, Sansa learnt everything she knows of being a lady, Jon grew among family, wielded a sword and became a well respected ‘bastard’.

And he says no? It was unacceptable. It was their home? A home she wished to fill with children, live out her days, to protect and worship.

Bile rises high in her throat. It is where her family grew, it is what Robb sought to defend against everything, what father loved, what mother made her home. And Sansa gave it up. Because why? She could not stand the fear.

A battle that they would ultimately lose. Would Robb be angry with her? Would father and mother curse her? Should she have fought for it? Convinced Jon it was the right thing, that the course of action would lead to victory, no matter how unlikely?

She doesn’t have time to answer before she speaks, the words not thought through. “No?” She repeats, he stiffens when he hears her. Both know the simple word came out vexed.

Jon, sly as he is, gives her a chance glance. “No.” He repeats. This time harder, angry, annoyed she thinks.

Sansa drops the needle wavering in hand to the floor. “You do not regret leaving what could have been ours?”

Jon, the poor man, being berated with her oncoming fury, her guilt and regret, shakes it off and grumbles to himself before speaking his mind. “No.”

“Is that the only word you know now?” Sansa asks, incensed.

Jon shakes his head. “No.” He looks up at her. “Why miss something lost to you? We would have never won Winterfell back, Sansa, not with what little men I had. There was and is no reason to fight for it. It is gone.” Sansa stands at this, face flushed, her fists convulsing. “It is best you get used to the sentiment.”

How dare he? That is her home. His home. “It was not lost!” She shouts, her voice chilled beneath the sheet of ice she has grown over the years. A wall now, she would presume. A terrible, thick, and high wall. “We could have fought. Rallied the North to our side and taken back our home- Arya, Bran and Rickon’s home!” She feels desperate, as if she is grasping for strings long cut.

She is surprised Jon does not stand to meet her height, simply looks on, as if this were too much for him. More than he bargained for. “What would you have me do?” He near shouts. “Give you passage back? To a land long dead, a place we cannot save?” Sansa can feel the tears prick at her eyes. “We took the safest course of action. We left. I told you I was done fighting, for the Wall, the Wildlings, for Winterfell. You seemed just as weary, Sansa, remember you agreed. Now is no time for regret.”

Sniffling in, she wraps her arms around herself, turning her back to him. He says nothing, even as she can feel his eyes on her, he says nothing.

Taking a deep breath, she leaves him to his sword.

 

* * *

 

He apologized the moment she asked him to forgive her. To forgive Sansa. To forgive that she cannot simply forget. Just as Rodrick begs she forgive Jon. For his outburst, the way he handled her despair.

They are both broken, they recognize it when they gaze, watch each other with that of a predator’s gawk. The apology has increased to that of circumstance, of wishing and wanting. To fill the holes they’ve become, the tears of their hearts, they transition into these characters they’ve made. As to not feel the disgust, the wrongness in what they do.

For what better way to fill the hole than to further the sin you are? It is what she convinces herself, both Sansa and Alayne, that with Jon’s lips on her mouth, hard and all consuming is not wrong, is better for her. Better than anything in this world.

It is healing. For them both. Sansa has always wanted love, to feel it, have it thump in her heart. Jon- Rodrick gives that to her. The best he can he touches, holds, and smothers. Oh, it is vile in the sight of the Gods.

But Jon says they do not exist, and who better to believe than a man come back to life. A man she makes feel alive. As he has said.

His body is a rock, a bed stone made to keep her tall and mighty. Just as she is the silk beneath the terror he has been wrought. And when he buries his head between her thighs, her body stuck to the shift of cotton behind, the furs climbing her naked back, she gasps out.

His hands bruising the porcelain of her legs. And for the first time in her life, she feels pleasure, true satisfaction in that of a lover. The sort she has only dreamt of. The flat of his tongue lapping at the small nub, spreading her legs further just to feel more.

_To feel him._

Her hands reach out, grasping for anything, him, the bed, herself. His hair ends up being the choice, fingers carding and destroying what he had pulled up. The warmth in her gut is overwhelming and she cannot think of anything else. Nothing but the pure current he runs through her.

Humming out his name she bucks her hips. “Do you like this?” He rasps into the corner of her thigh, leaving her bare to stifling, hot hair. Alayne gulps, or is it Sansa? She cannot decide whom deserves this.

Sansa. She decides Sansa, after everything she has gone through, Sansa deserved this happiness. As did Jon. If he did not feel the guilt, if his honor did not scream at the treason they commit, then it must be for Jon. Not Rodrick.

So she nods. Nods like the pathetic thing she has turned to. The desperate little girl wishing for warmth. Any sort would do.

“If I hurt you, tell me when to stop.”

“Never.” She breathes, and he begins again, feasts as if she might dissipate any second. Swift in his ministrations until she is a writhing mess under his talented mouth. Something releases, something hot and powerful, and she calls out his name.

_Jon. Jon. Jon._

Not Rodrick. Just Jon. Her lovely, lonely, honeyed Jon. Never before has she been as sure of herself than in this moment, when she sits herself up on shaky elbows and pulls him up, kisses and tastes herself. Begs that he enter her, move inside her, and he should have- might have said no.

But he doesn’t. He penetrates in one slow stride, to make her comfortable, and nothing has made her feel this whole. This complete, nothing in her life, not as Jon does now. As if they have become one. He moves slow, heavy, shucks her up the bed and rocks her into a despairing lust.

A lady would be ashamed. Sansa only croons his name over and over again, a prayer licking at her lips, her head now stuffed into the crook of his neck. Where his scent is all the more groggy. That of welded steel, boiled leather, dirt and salt have her drunk on everything that is him.

His teeth scrape at the lobe of her ear, his grunts sending chills down her spine, more so when he admits he wants more. He wants her utterly, completely, forever. “Peak for me sweet girl.” He drones, time and time again, his hand slithering between the two. Finding that small little nub, relentless in his attack.

She does, her legs crowning his waist as she meets him for each thrust, a wanton little thing she has become in such a small amount of time. Her mother would be ashamed. But Sansa cannot find it in herself to be.

She trembles when she releases, again, and pulls at his shoulders, her hands slinking down. Drawing blood as they scratch back up. She can feel it, and with an eager boost, she orders that he fill her with his seed.

It seems to send him away, lost in her, lost in their love making, and he does not pull away when he comes. The hot fluid taking her breath away. Gasping for breath as he slumps down on her, only to roll them both over in a topple.

Her head on his chest, a leg swung over his own, she nuzzles her endearment.

“I love you Jon Snow.” She hums.

He goes rigid, as if realizing what acts they had just committed, but he does not stray. He holds onto her tighter, inspects her skin with soft fingers. And in the lowest voice, the heaviest, he says aloud “And I you, Sansa Stark.”

Both seemingly accepting what they have become. Neither have it in them to give a damn.

 

* * *

 

Sansa has a son. Growing large with a child until she pops. He has auburn curls, large grey eyes, and without hesitance he is named Robb. Who would believe this boy is named after a dead King? No one.

Not in Volantis.

She has another soon after. A little girl. Robb is only two when she comes into this world. Both she and Jon agree her name is Arya. She looks like the lost child of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. The long lost sister to Sansa Stark and Jon Snow. Grey eyes and dark hair, all Stark. All wolf. Her pups flowering at her skirts.

And another. This little, delicate pup near takes her life. Near had Jon in a ruin. And she must tell him, as she clings to their babe, that he will be strong. Despite anything that comes their way. Including her death. That they have children now. And they need a father.

They name their daughter Cat. For her red hair and Tully blue eyes. Sansa thought Jon would disagree with the name, instead he simply says “I hope she garners care for me, is all.” Sansa insures that this daughter of theirs will love him most.

More than her own mother she will follow him about, beg for his attention. Jon likes the sound of it all and smiles at her like he is not dead, not lost, and she beams back.

And it is their fourth, this sweet mixture of love and despair that takes her life. This little boy of silver hair and indigo eyes. A boy she does not recognize but does. It is her son, he grew inside her, had a family awaiting him.

A big brother and two big sisters, a father and mother. A life outside her womb. However, it would seem Sansa would not be there for her son. For her family.

The last she remembers, bedridden, is Jon pleading, begging, sobbing that she stay with him and a babe cradled in her arms, her children surrounding her in a panic. And a woman, so pale and lovely standing in the vale of the door. Her hair that of snow and eyes of lilac. A frown evident as that of screeching and fire hymns just outside the window.

In a sweat filled fever she realizes whom is her husband, whom is her lover, whom is not her brother. Not with a child such as this. And as an echo she reaches, shouts, sings and loves but fades, and that is what she and Jon wanted? Was it not?

To fade.

Sansa feels she has done so _extraordinarily._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry it’s taking me forever to write up prompts. I’m trying to catch up, I promise. I thought I might actually finish one, just to hold off for the break I’m taking. Thank you all for your patience! This turned out a bit sadder than I initially planned.


	29. Cruel is Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark finally kills Petyr Baelish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been receiving a lot of messages asking if I’m alright. It’s a hard question to answer, but physically yes. I know a lot of people are worried right now, and while it’s really nobodies business, I feel a bit bad that people are concerned and they have nothing to go off of. My sister is currently in the hospital, and that is why I’m there. She got in a car wreck and I’m here to keep company and make sure she’s alright. 
> 
> I’m sorry I got a few worried. But I will be fine, it’s just a lot to take in. Concerning this, I felt a bit bad, and wrote something for you all. It took me about a half-hour. So apologies for any misspelling.

***

***

The moment Sansa found, saw, and heard beyond the Weirwood was the day she lost any consolation towards that of Petyr Baelish. The more evidence she gathered, the longer it dwelled in her head, a spiking urgency tearing her at the seams, the easier it became to hate him all the more.

Despise, the need to destroy what had turned her to ash. The ultimate cause of her family’s demise, the untimely tear in her heart started with her father, and ended with Rickon.

Sansa, the moment she saw him in the darkened corner the day Jon was named King was the day she knew he must dealt with. She will admit, his offer was intriguing, being named Queen- but it was not enough. A crown nor he would ever be.

Petyr was not her home, he was not her heart nor trust, but a sniveling rat who has sold her off, lied to her, used her; groomed her to be his. He betrayed her family, he is the reason her father ended in a cell, and lost his head, leading to further the path of her family’s death-

For so long she thought it was herself who killed father, that her words of plea were not enough for Joffrey. And then she saw it all, the day she felt Bran lived inside the Godswood, she saw everything. When her fingers came into contact she witnessed the day the world became that of a shadow swallowing her whole.

It was and is Petyr Baelish’s fault.

It is a quick decision really, when she decides his life will end the day the lords and ladys will gather, the day Jon will hold a feast for the Dragon Queen. No longer can she anchor the fury she holds like a vice.

Now, she and he walk along the path of snowberries and frost, demanding to be seen by the Old Gods in the Godswood. Or so she claims. There is one thing she is certain this man holds, and it is his love for her. Demented as it is, for he is not below trudging her under his feet to get on top- he still goes to great lengths to earn her attention and hold her nearby.

He is close now, and for much of his time in Winterfell she has played them both, he and Jon. For one purpose only, did she not warn Jon, and that is for his safety. The King is a horrible liar, and disposing of Baelish will take more than ordering his head be lopped off.

That, and Sansa wanted to see the look on his face when she did it herself. Willingly. That she be the last face he sees before the darkness consumes him, as it did her, once. Still does, she thinks, and knows well enough it has pitted her into something monstrous, not that she cares for it.

“I wished to speak.” Sansa hums, rubbing her hands together to keep some alliance with the warmth she knows is hiding in between.

Petyr looks down to her and nods. He must think this is about Jon, whom she had ‘conspired’ to be rid of some time ago. Truth is, she wanted to be rid of the lord’s unwilling to serve him, and there are very few, and soon there will be none.

Sansa will not kill them of course, but blackmailing, frightening, threatening them is something she is all but too willing to use. However, there is one she plans to end once and for all, the catalyst that has made her family a sigil of blood and death.

A wolf drained of life. Except, she knows there is one left. Howling for his bones to shatter, that he lose all the air in his lungs, that his heart stop beating; a red wolf he will yield towards in the end.

“It is about you.” Sansa continues as she leads him further into the thicket of trees, her course and destination the Weirwood. Her men without banners await, and there his end as well. Petyr lifts a brow.

“Oh?” It does not push him away, her small glare, either he is too blind to see it or does not care at this point. He must think he has her. Nothing could be further from the truth. “And what about me must you ask?”

Sansa holds down the ire, the contemplative urge to slap him, throw him to the ground and let Ghost have at him, or her hounds.

Instead, she simply tilts her head and gives way to a sigh. “I remember your picture, the day you told me of it. I have one too, now.” This gathers his devout attention. “A family, a sweet spring to raise them in, and the world left to peace. A husband with or without a crown, and a home to feel safe in.” It is a true dream, falsely given weight to her heart for some time, but it seems possible. If she reaches far enough. But this is not what their walk is about.

He is hiding a rats smirk, a gleam in his eye. “A lovely sentiment that we both are alike in.” Petyr voices. As if it were reason. It is not. He will never be apart of that future.

“The picture will be hard to obtain. Tell me again, what is the first rule in playing this game?”

This seems to make him happy, after all she is his student. “Always keep the fools confused, if they do not know who you are, or what it is you want-”

“They cannot know what you plan to do next.” Sansa finishes.

Petyr smiles down at her. “Yes. Good.” Sansa begins to walk faster, long legs carrying quick and steadier than before.

He does well to keep up. “Well, lord Baelish, I think you have broken your own rule.” It is then he watches on, curious in her intent.

Sansa hopes to the Gods, old and new, that they see to it he never reaches the heavens. And if he does, it is her father who finds a way to send him deep in the pits of all seven hells. He deserves no less, and it rages on inside when she makes eye contact.

He needn’t ask why, she can see the query without a word. “You told me everything. Your plan, your wanton thoughts, how to play and what to do.” Petyr does not look at all threatened, simply concerned with where this is to go. As if he did not realize the mistake.

Did he truly think her that daft? “And now you play the game, my dear.” He murmurs, his hand skimming her forearm.

It is moments like this she wishes she were like Arya or the Queen, and without hesitation could take his head. But she well thought, she strategizes, uses her mind and wits not her consistent and thoughtless reaction towards unsavory situations.

Not that she could hate them for it. But it came with consequences she was not willing to place just yet. Even if the end of this game they play halts with his death. With or without him knowing.

And it is almost funny, a jest, to think that he has not figured her out. That he claims to be a great player and yet she has won before he has even grasped the concept of her scheme. Of her intelligence, practiced and well versed.

The difference is that she wields a knife sharper than his own. Not in need of power but destruction. Chaos is a ladder she has found, but they both use it differently. For him it is to revel in gain. For Sansa, it is to take what others sought to keep.

No longer does she ponder, she acts, and intends to use the ladder for as long as she can. To never slip nor fall. She has made it her own.

“I suppose.” He drawls. It roils something fierce in her, something kin to deranged and furious. “It is our plan, now, if you are to be my Queen.” The addition makes the twist in her gut worse.

Harder to keep her intentions at bay. “And what if I do not want to be Queen? What if this game is not for me?” She looks up at him, and finally they enter the clearing.

There is no escape now. It is too late for him to understand and he freezes the moment he sees it. The noose swinging in the cold winter air, draped from the Weirwood itself. The men that corner him, large men, small men, all hands on the hilts of their swords. She does not waste time in getting to the point. “I know what you did.” She spits out.

Her back is turned to him, and her eyes land on that of the Hound, a man she thought long dead. Apparently she was wrong. For he stands with the bannerless, naming her his lady and he her sword and shield.

Stranger events have taken place. Sansa is not surprised. Nor the fool. She knows he feels something for her, an interest she will never entertain.

“I know that you betrayed my father, that you convinced Joffrey to take his head.” Her voice is below a quiver, it angers her more than she anticipated. It infuriates her all the more to hear nothing from him in defense.

And so she swivels, facing him with a frown, and she feels all the more satisfied. He is pale, caught in the sight of a bow like the stag he is, with no knowledge of where to run. He could have played it off, acted his offense, but he does not.

For they both know this knowledge, now dug up, is his undoing. “For so long I thought it was my fault my father died. I convinced myself if I had begged harder, offered more than my marriage, that he would still be alive. In truth, you had changed everything.”

Petyr opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out and his mouth seals into a tight, thin line of defeat. “If not for you Robb and my mother would still be alive, he would not have gone to war, my brothers and sister would be here with me, and my father at the wall. He could have defended Jon from being hurt, from dying. But they are dead and it is your fault.” Something inside boils, rivets under his strain, something joyful.

There is nothing for him to say, she knows there isn’t, it is why he does not speak. “You took my life from me. A happy life. And then proceeded to try and mold me into the woman you loved, my mother.” Sansa clips, allowing it to sink in. He watches, eyes glazed, nearly defeated. He harbors much too dignity to display his fear. “I thought you might find me out, but you got distracted, Petyr, enough so that you did not realize just how much I despise you. And that is where you misstepped.” Sansa turns then, moving forward as two men come up from behind him and drag him forward.

Sansa gawks at the noose. The way it sways, much like the leaves of the heart tree, as if it has a mind of its own. A desire building to take a life not worth her time.

Petyr is hoisted up to where it swings, the roots large and thick enough to lift him up. Small enough to choke the life away. It is when he comes beneath it, looking her dead in the eyes, that she finds the specks of terror. The loss. A game he thought he’d been winning scattered to the wind within the blink of an eye.

“I had a picture, Petyr, we just did not share the same.” Something cruel, something vile springs to life inside, and the need to plaster her intentions before them all is great. A needy comparison to some dream. “I suppose there is one thing in common, in this picture, something you have engraved inside me, and that is my mother.” Sansa explains. “I may share little in comparison with her now, but there will always be something I carry from her, something substantial. A choice made time and time again, I will never choose you.”

The rope is brought down to his throat, it is then he struggles, wriggling in the mens arms. She is shocked when he speaks, actually questioning, as if he did not understand. “And who is it you choose, who could you possibly need, who could love you more than I?” It is a desperate cry for help.

Sansa comes before him, placing a hand along his cheek, warm yet spiteful. She tilts her head, doe eyes glittering under the dim sunlight. A sign of his demise. “Jon.”

“He is a bastard.”

Sansa smirks, another piece of her life, and his, that she found. Without the tree, without Petyr, but on her lonesome. Stray evidence lied in her father’s old solar, his chancery, and the crypts. Rhaegar’s famed harp lied with Lyanna in her tomb. The confirmation of Howland Reed more than great, helpful, but needy.

He is no son of Ned Stark and whomever managed to lay with him. But the true heir to the throne. Her cousin. A prince. A King. And her love, her heart, her home and life.

“The only bastard I see is you.” She bites, backing away as she watches one of the may men draped in garb and red tighten the noose. “For the man I love is a King. A true King.”

Petyr has the audacity to smile. “A brother. I had hoped Cersei’s relations with her brother would not rub off on you.” Is it truly right to anger her in this instant, when there is something clinging to his neck ready to choke the life from him?

He is more foolish than he thinks himself to be. “Cousin.” She corrects.

The man’s eyes widen. She knew he knew. Sansa is curious for how long he knew. Not that it matters. He never mattered. Petyr would die tonight. Under her supervision and orders he would become blue and pale.

And would never harm her or her family ever again.

Sansa straightens her shoulders, and can feel the Hound stand beside her, grumbling something under his breath. Along the lines of ‘about damned time’.

She wonders how long he has waited for Petyr to die? She should ask at the feast. When the rope is fastened, he chokes out, an attempt to cop out. Sansa is ready. “I, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Wardeness of the North, Riverlands, and the Vale, in the sight of Gods and men sentence you, Petyr Baelish, to die.” Sansa holds out her hand, Sandor releasing a blade in hand. For the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.

Longclaw fits well in her palms, and she wonders if Jon knows it is missing. Eyeing the rope bared under rock, tied into a knot, she marches towards it. Petyr struggles, lashing out.

“I love you.” He murmurs, breathless. “I love you Sansa Stark, Jon will never love you as I do. He will leave you. I know he will.” Sansa sighs out, fixing the blade in hand. “He is to wed Daenerys. I know he will. He has yet to tell you, but I have been notified by Varys little birds.”

Sansa would have halted, if not that she already knew, it did not worry her. Bringing the sword back she slashes at the rope, it breaks immediately under the weight of the blade. He chokes out as the rope lifts and brings him with it.

Holding the sword tight, she exhales heavily, out of relief or something else, she does not know. All she does know is he is dying, flinging in the air, legs kicking, saliva pouring from his liar’s mouth. His eyes are bloodshot, he is pallid, and he attempts to keep his eyes on her.

She never strays, watching without fault. The feel of Sandor is quick, he presses behind her, eyes steeled, never leaving the sight of a mockingbird caught in his own trap.

“Little wolf.” He husks, a new nickname he has given to her. “Look away.” Sansa gives him a short glance, shaking her head.

“You were the first to tell me to get used to killers, to face them, and I am. I need to.” He stiffens beside her. “As my father said, if you cannot bear the sight of that you condemned to death, they do not truly deserve it. What does it tell you, ser Clegane, that I enjoy the sight of him struggling? Dying and losing his battle, that I revel in the sight of it?” Sandor may have frowned, but he does not, nor does he argue. Simply pulls back, and she hands the sword back to it’s sheath.

Sansa does not steer until he stops moving, the life from him gone, and satisfaction lays waste to her form. She is free. Truly free from him. Her heart pitters under the feel of it, pure complacency fills her to the brim.

“My lady.” Thoros speaks up, after a beat of silence, and Sansa flickers towards him. “What do you wish to do with him?”

Sansa eyes the dead man hanging, and turns away, smirking as she does so. “Feed him to my hounds.”

There is no need to look, to find that they have bent the knee in her regard. All she knows is her castle of snow is safe, the giant has been slain, and her family has it’s justice.


	30. Foundations Broken II (Smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found this sitting in my drafts and completely forgot about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thickskinandelasticheart asked: Prompt: Sansa meets Jon at Castle Black and the reunion is beautiful. However, Tormund isn't the only ginger present by Jon's side, Ygritte is alive and as time passes and feelings develop, there's angst, tension and heartbreak involved with all 3. (could be endgame jon/ygritte or jon/sansa, preferably jonsa!
> 
> cruyffsbeckenbauer said:  
> Another Ygritte Jonsa request. Something from Jon or Sansa's point of view. Same story though! I just always wanted to know how does Jon fall in love with Sansa or how does Sansa feel about falling in love with Jon when he is with Ygritte. Thank you. Love your writing so, so much!
> 
> And a few others asked for a continuation on here as well.

***

***

“I want you to help me, but I will do it myself if I have to.”

Her voice is that of a whip crack, not in that it is harsh, but that it echo’s. A constant in mind as it burnishes what little common sense he has left. The mere thought in taking back Winterfell is a suffocating pang in his chest. For so long he has fought, for so long he has lost and he is not willing to go through with it again.

Winterfell is his home, it is Sansa’s- a girl he hasn’t seen since they were children, since she was but of three and ten, yet here she is, claiming her fury before him with little description in reason. To see the young woman before him, it makes him hopeful, but not for Winterfell.

However, he does wish to ask what happened. What she went through. Even as he pends on the woman several doors over, waiting on him. Waiting for a response in what they plan to do. For now he can never leave Sansa.

Now sworn to her in mind and life. A part of him hopes Ygritte does not take to it as aggression and accepts. The other fears she will not.

He gazes at her, the comment still ringing in mind, before he says without premise “What happened?” Jon knows little of Sansa, but she is never one to get dirty. Fighting for their home? It hardly seems her battle, let alone his.

Sansa furrows her brows, knotted just as his were moments ago. “What does it matter? Winterfell is ours Jon, and if you’re not willing to fight for it then I-”

Jon doesn’t think she can feel the tears slipping pass, so he interrupts. “What did he do to you?” He asks, softer, keeping his stance as to not frighten her.

A glimpse of terror crosses the gleam of her eyes and Jon knows he asked the wrong question. That it should have never slipped past his lips. His throat runs dry under the prospect of her dreary tone, as it draws her pale once more.

He near takes back his question, to ask for forgiveness, instead he gets what he no longer wants. An answer. “I was wed to him.” Sansa replies stiffly. “I thought if I were in Winterfell it would not matter whom I wed, but I was wrong Jon, so very wrong.” It’s beyond a choke, her voice, for she is now stifling the whimpers exiting her mouth.

Whatever happened, it was fresh in mind, barely scabbed over and he had just torn it open. Jon doesn’t know what to do, watching as she palms her mouth, as if she were sick. Does he hold her? As he did out in the courtyard, full of relief and care.

Or does he watch on and hope for the best?

It felt entirely too heartless to just watch. To examine the agony writhing before him. Careful in stepping close, he opens his arms and pulls her into a warming embrace. Just like they did before. Sansa does not haste herself into burrowing her head into the crook of his neck.

Her fingers pinching into the back his leather doublet, he can smell the rustic soap she used to bath herself with and the flora in her hair. Sansa is...soft. Comforting for him, as he hopes he is to her.

He hushes her, rubbing his hand down her back in a soothing motion. When she speaks once more his heart plummets to the pit of his stomach.

“Every night he would hurt me, he would take me however he wished and I cannot forget it Jon. All I see is his face when I close my eyes, and his voice...That terrible voice.” She tightens her grip, and something inside swells. Worse than fury. And he gambles in immediately agreeing or not. “I still feel it inside me, what he would do to me, I still feel it.” Sobs wrack her body and he can only hold.

Jon feels useless, unable to keep her calm, just as the ire climbs. He is gentle, the best he can be, he did not wish to harm her. However the itch to tear this man apart is what grows by the second. And suddenly he understands her anger all the better. For he is tired, he had assumed the same of her, and it confused him to see her vengeful.

But now he understands. Now he knows what he must do.

“We will take back Winterfell, Sansa.” He murmurs. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Battle plans are part of his many worries. As well as keeping Sansa alive. Keep the free folk alive, to keep Ygritte alive. He is reminded the moment she enters his tent, breathing, head tilt.

Ygritte frowns down at him and he shakes his head, looking to the plans on the table.

“I heard little of ye’ fight. Was it bad?” She exclaims, he thinks to it and sighs. Working with Sansa had been far from easy, and yet he cannot help but feel riled when she opens her mouth and speaks reason. Reason he never sees yet she does.

And it worsens, because he promised- oh, he promised to keep her alive. For what she plans to do if he loses, it is beyond belief. To kill herself? It sinks in his heart, clenched tight, that of a wolf’s fangs.

Never once, as a child, did he think Sansa a true wolf. A Stark, yes, but she was soft and dreaming. Now she has been carved into something restless, and he understands the feeling, even if he doesn’t want to.

Jon nods in acknowledgment. “Aye.”

Ygritte comes up behind him, wrapping her arms around him loose. And he knows something is wrong when he does not feel the swell in his chest under her touch, the thundering of his heart when her breath skims his neck, and he is condemned to hell when he finds he might prefer Sansa’s hold rather than his lovers.

Yes, something is wrong. Squeezing his eyes shut he leans into her touch, forcing himself to believe in it, to not betray the warmth and accept what he has. Perhaps it is a sisters touch he wishes for because he never truly had it in his young years?

Of course there was Arya, the wild little thing, but he never received rightful attention from Sansa. The prim and proper one. He thinks that is why he wants it more than ever. To feel her close, hold tight, to have her breath skimming his neck and her heat against him.

Once he knew his sister’s touch he would feel all the more for Ygritte’s.That was it. He just wished for family, for home, to feel that of the past. Jon near feels relief upon figuring out the answer to his odd need, and turns to Ygritte.

Looking her in the eyes, he leans down and kisses her softly. She smiles into it, wrapping her arms about his neck. When she pulls back, running a hand down his cheek, she tilts her head. “We’ll win.”

It pains him to know he might need Sansa to say the same.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t have time to recognize the knights of the Vale, or the fact Sansa kept this from his knowledge, the only thing burning inside was the man who had ran away. Who had looked to Sansa in fear and surprise and fled to Winterfell.

His home. Sansa’s home.

And so he chases, he sprints after the bastard with every intention on killing him. Every frayed nerve excites at the thought, and when given the chance, Jon doesn’t stop.

For when Ramsay claims he would prefer they fight one on one, Jon does not hold back. Smothering him with a shield, throwing Ramsay to the ground, Jon feels his fist break after the eighth hit.

Blood is drenching his knuckles, Ramsay’s face appears torn apart, caved in as his nose is split and the rest is something he cannot distinguish. There is a moment he thinks he should stop, but then he smiles, the rage boils and he hits on.

In the hopes it may kill him. And even as Ygritte tells him it is enough, that if he punches the man once more he will become nothing more than bone and blood. Nothing to hold him together. He ignores her. For the first time he refuses to hear her.

And then he sees her. Sansa, watching, eyebrows drawn. A look of concern curving at her lips. That is what gets him to stop. Sansa. Not Ygritte. He boils it down to familial love. As he does when he stands, breathless, and Sansa comes to him with a cloth in hand.

Cleaning his face of the mess it has become, the mud and blood, all swept away under her gentle touch. Her eyes never leave his as she does this, and in a subtle whisper she hums “Thank you.”

His stomach coils and his heart skips a beat upon hearing her say it. He makes sure not to look at Ygritte, to keep the guilt back- yet why should he feel guilty? There is no reason in doing so. She is his sister, he has every right to lean into her touch, to close his eyes for he is weary. Exhausted.

In the end, he will not admit he keeps his eyes closed to avoid Ygritte’s hard stare, nor does he acknowledge the twist inside when Sansa dirties her gown to hug him. Just as he did when she made him his cloak.

Familial love. Nothing more. Nothing less.

 

* * *

 

The pale bark bled before him, crimson leaves swaying all on their own with little current to help do so. One might think it terrifying, if they had not grown in the North, let alone seen a Weirwood. However, it is comforting for someone like him.

Not in the sense of Gods, for they all but seem a figment of imagination, for death had only wrought him darkness. Nothing compared to the eternal bliss the afterlife supposedly promises.

However, it did not matter if the Gods reigned here or otherwise. That did not halt the ease that composes itself in the Godswood, for this is where he escaped as a young man to be alone. Hidden from wandering eyes of those who judged.

The bastard boy of the gracious and honorable lord Eddard Stark, who somehow ruined that of Winterfell with his presence. Now? They look to him as if he were a God, a savior, and to think they made him King?

He does not know what to make of it. And so, like many times before, he fled to the Heart Tree, hidden from those who stare in thanks rather than disgust.

How does he rule a kingdom? How does he play at being King, let alone find it in himself to be a leader- the last he led a people they betrayed him, bled him to death in the cold. To even recognize that he accepted this title is beyond him.

Jon wonders, what would have the little bastard boy thought if he could see what he would soon turn into? He would think it overwhelming, just as his current self does as well. He feels as if he may drown, perhaps he may, if this suffocation continues.

“Thinking?” The sweet voice tugs him from his thoughts, and with a slow turn finds the woman who put him here in the first place. Who claimed him to be a Stark in her own heart. He aches at the prospect.

With a little nod he pivots back to the tree, staring back into its sunken eyes. She comes to stand next to him, Ghost still prominent at her side, as he has been since she came to the Wall. “Yes.” He mutters.

There is a moment of silence before Sansa says “I asked your wildling where you were, yet she did not know where you left to.” Sansa looks to him, eyes cold as ice, and it takes all the energy he has to not return the gaze. “I find that curious. Do you not trust her? I thought she was your lover.”

She near sounds choked on the last bit, but he has found Sansa is a profound liar and does well in keeping her secrets. As she did about the knights of the Vale- he tries not to let it bother him. Ygritte says otherwise, that is should bother him, for how could he trust her after what his ‘brothers’ did to him.

That she lied to a King. Jon decided, the second he promised to protect her, to believe her, he knew he could not take it to heart. She was right. If Ramsay had found out they had more than initially thought, they would have lost.

Sansa saved them, no matter what some think. She is the reason they won the battle for Winterfell. Not that it seemed to matter to Ygritte, when they stay up late in the warmth of his chamber. Her leg strewn across his own, her hair the color of amber lit flame.

Jon cannot help it in the end, glimpsing her through the corner of his eye, finding that of a Weirwood in her own standing. The red hair and pale skin. Just as beautiful as such too. However, she does not have Ygritte’s hair, as one might claim. Sansa’s was darker, rooted, more Northern than wild.

Just as her eyes are made of frost while Ygritte’s seem to be made up of the rivers here in Westeros. Jon decides he should answer before she finds an answer through her stare, the sort that unnerves him. Not because he fears it, or that it holds the same composure towards those she despises, but in the fact that it does something awful to his heart.

Terse and tight it yanks at him, it is good he speaks before she can use it. “I trust her. I just needed time alone, is all.” He excuses. And it is only now that he realizes Sansa went to Ygritte looking for him.

They get on fine, but the relationship strains under Sansa’s distrust. As most do around her. She is just barely learning to trust Davos and Tormund. Asking her to burden herself with others is too much to ask, especially after what she has been through.

“Do you wish for me to leave?” She pends, her doe eyes now glazed and on him. Jon gives her his full attention, unable to help himself, greedily taking in her form. She is beautiful, more than ever in the dim sunlight and the glow the tree itself gives off.

Jon shakes his head, surprising himself. He had made it clear he wanted to be alone with Ygritte. So what makes Sansa’s presence any different? He fears he knows the answer but he refuses to give heed. Too afraid to know what it means and what it could entail.

The response leads to an ongoing silence, wherein it is comfortable and holds no need to continue with speech. She is as inviting to him as she is cold to others, a great rift between the two, and she does little in their peace. Simply watches the Heart Tree as he sneaks glances at her.

He finds just now she adorns a new gown. Fur clad and white. As if it were made of snow, if anything less, made for winter. The thick wool clinging to her body as if she might lose all breath and turn to ice.

Jon sucks in a breath and overlooks the view before him. And then he spots something quite peculiar. A winter rose shafted in between the elongated roots of the Weirwood. It looks out of place, yet somehow appears to belong. The pallid blue in such contrast to that of the moated crimson.

He does not know what comes over him, not when he steps forward and picks the rose for himself. Only that he thinks it would look lovey in Sansa’s hair and with her choice of attire. He remembers Robb doing much of the same for his dear sister, having no trouble in acting the brotherly former of once was.

What causes brief maelstrom is the constriction in his chest as he does so, holding it out to her in an awkward manner. Sansa’s eyes set alight upon seeing it, a small tilt of her head and she takes it with a beam so sweet, it near gives him a toothache.

“Thank you?” It sounds a query, however it does not pay it any attention and simply nods. Coming to stand where he once was. The silence does not last. Not with Sansa now rummaging memories and speaking aloud. “Remember when you and Robb would play knights?”

The memory is almost painful. In the warm spring days as they would battle about the courtyard or the Godswood, he and Robb rallying in chivalric smirks to win that of a princess’s adoration. That princess was always Sansa.

When Theon would join, the both of them would do best to steer him away. The little fool. Jon nods, smirking at the thought. A life so different from theirs. Where the world was not set on killing them both.

Sansa scoots close, rolling the stem of the rose in hand. “You made me a flower crown once, it had wild flowers, thistle, and winter roses. You named me the Queen of Love and Beauty when we were but children. Valiant knights come to fight for the princess.” She says wistfully.

It takes him a moment, but now that he thinks on it, hard, he remembers. Just barely. The best distinction is that of lady Catelyn scolding him for even making her precious daughter such an ornament. She needn’t say her revulsion in that of a bastards perversion, even if it had yet to come alive.

“Didn’t your lady mother have you throw it out?” He cannot help but ask. He knows it is a touchy subject, her mother, it is for both of them. It does not seem to harm her in any way and the relief he feels is enough for him to let loose the concern.

Sansa nods. “She did.” Sansa voices in confirmation. “But I kept it anyways. After the feast I snuck out to the stables and brought it back to my chambers. I kept it until it turned old and black.” It shocks him to hear this, to hear truth sprout from her lips, from the past no less.

All he can do is say “Really?” Stupefaction turning him awestruck. She kept it? Jon can barely remember how he made it and she retains the small details of it all? From the types of flowers to when they grew old and died?

Since when did she care for what he made, at least at that age? He finds it odd. Unbelievable actually, to know she cared then as she does now. She simpers, leaning her head on his shoulder, his stomach betraying him as does his heart. His mind screaming whatever he feels is wrong and he must escape.

However, he makes no move to do such a thing. Instead he basks in that of her saccharine scent, of lemon cakes, candles and all around of Winterfell. Of home. “Of course.” Sansa utters. “You made it for me, and at the time I did not know any better. Mother saw it as an implication of your expressed attraction towards me.” His eyes widen in confusion, or better yet shock.

“Truly? She thought…” He cannot finish the sentence, he shan’t, it would do him no good. Because if lady Stark were here now, witnessing their interaction, she would do just the same to the flower he just gave her.

Nor what he finds himself emoting, quickly he pulls away, frowning. Sansa lifts a brow at the action. Before she can speak he offers explanation by saying he should go see Ygritte. And when he turns away he pretends not to see to disappointment evident in her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Jon is a Targaryen, he thought the knowledge of this towards the North might have him thrown out. Instead, they keep him, have him play King still, and the suspicion on Sansa, who he finds is a cousin rather than sister, becomes worse.

For who would rather take the throne from him than a true Stark?

“Your grace, I believe it is time to confront her-”

Jon silences the old man with a cold stare. “Out.” He orders, the lord’s gawking in what could be considered fear. Terror, perhaps? “I will have none of it!” They all scurry out of the room as if their heels are on fire.

It is only Davos and Tormund who stay in the chamber, silent, cautious in his now bludgeoned state of vexation. Neither speak, they wait, knowing full well Jon might snap on the two of them. If they do not play heedful and close their mouths.

Their thought of residence and obvious concern would only be frowned upon. “How dare they?” Jon utters. “How dare they accuse Sansa of treason? She would never plan my downfall, not with lord Baelish.” He doesn’t want to believe them. Ever. Sansa would never do such a thing. Not after what she told him, of how he sold her to the bastard who hurt her. How he used her.

And yet the possibility grips his heart in a restraint he will never take well. When he glances up in the hopeful appearance that his two right hand men might look just as he does, certain in his lady, he is let down. Both frown at him, Davos certainly more than Tormund.

He groans out when Davos asks permission to speak freely. Unwillingly, Jon gives him permission and buries his head in his hands. “I believe we should take precaution. I do not know lady Stark well, but enough to see the jealousy, your grace. Winterfell _is_ hers.”

Jon blinks hard, attempting to rationalize any and all thought. “No.” He manages. “Sansa would never...I don’t believe she- I can’t believe she would ever hurt me.” He thinks back to the day when they stood over the ramparts.

When Sansa claimed Winterfell was his, that she had no wish in naming it her own, not on her lonesome. A piece of him breaks at the thought. Someone as dear as she even processing the idea of doing so? He feels as if he has died once more.

Only the raw frostbite accumulates inside. Jon despises it.

Still, Tormund says nothing, for it is Davos who pushes on. “I think it best we send lord Baelish away, or perhaps keep Sansa confined to her chambers until-”

Jon is that of fire, breathing smoke he tears away from his hands and glares at Davos. He is startled under the heat of his gaze, hot enough to burn the both of them alive, and Jon has never felt this enraged in his life.

“I cannot send that rat away, not without losing his men, without the knights of the Vale we will lose Winterfell!” He shouts, rages, stampeding over any possibility in restraining her. “And to even suggest I condemn her to her quarters? Are you daft, my lord?” Jon has never spoke to a man like this before, it pains him to do so now, but the ire that builds is far from fathomable.

It spikes and grows and sprouts; there is nothing he can do about it. “I know you wish to protect her-”

“I will not lose her!” Jon surges forward, face beet red as he attempts to think it through. The evidence the lords had on her only leaves him to writhe in agony. Sansa would never hurt him. Would she? He whips about, scowling that of a wolf’s temper, or mayhaps a dragons? That is what he is now, is it not? “I cannot lose her, I need her...I want...” He exclaims, defeated, and yet the flare of pique does not leave.

And so he does what he only knows how to, at this point, hitting the the bookcase not far from where he stands. Each book falling out under the duress of his force, again and again he hits until the satisfaction does nothing but leave him exhausted.

Jon does not take the time to acknowledge Tormund and Davos stammering and jumping with each pound. Not until he lies his forehead against the wood, sighing out and squeezing his eyes close. And when he does all he can see is Weirwood strands lathing her back, the ivory of her flesh and the ice in her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he gawks at the two before leaving. He would think this through in his chambers- and when he does, he only finds Ygritte awaiting him. He should be happy to see her, but it only leaves him breathless, irritated even, and he lies down.

And when he does, he knows exactly what she will want.

 

* * *

 

The guilt never subsides. Not when he knows of whom he thinks of when he fists his cock, when he rests inside Ygritte’s cunt, or when he laps at her until she is molten copper in his arms. It worsens when he sights Sansa, entering his chamber without notifying him of her presence.

He has not seen her in some time and would like to blame her subtle absence on his repugnant actions, his dirty mind, to see her on her back as he tastes her, makes love to her like no other. To show her a man’s caress does not have to be violent.

His hand pauses over the ledger and they stare, she looking that of a doe caught in the sight of huntsman. Despite himself he grows furious, concerned at whomever made her look like this. With her skin pale, worried and rather sickly, and her lips swollen.

Someone kissed her. Took her without consent. And he has an inkling on who did.

“I have to wed him.” She claims, and it throws him completely off guard. “I have to or he will take our knights and leave us defenseless. I apologize Jon, I thought I could keep the men without having to marry, I thought if I kept him waiting long enough, we would have our men from Riverrun in due time and-”

Jon lifts a hand. “Sansa, slow down.” He stands, leaving his work behind to stand before her, his heart sulking at the sight. One might lose their head if he were not in his right mind. To have her like this before him, just as she was at the Wall, he thinks he might tear apart Winterfell to have at Petyr’s head.

She sniffs. “I’m sorry. I thought I could outplay him, I was wrong and now he expects my name.” Sansa looks up at him, and he never knew just how much he truly loved her until this moment, and he does everything he can to hold back the realization before it bursts. “He never expected you to become King, so he has to make due, if he weds me and gets a child on me, an heir, he will have Winterfell Jon.”

He would not allow that, and in one swift motion his hand rests on her cheek, the feel of her skin sending him in a heated rush. He does best not to act on it. “I can send for his head.” Sansa declines in one simple shake of her head.

“You know we cannot.” Jon, he aspires to be her hero, and if he cannot take the monsters life what is he to do?

And it spoils him rotten, makes him sick and green when he thinks of it, a loophole. “What if you were to wed someone else?” Sansa goes rigid under his touch, and he realizes he must be specific, for it was not clear enough for the either of them.

For he it must seem vile. To promise her protection only to leave her to another that is unknown and treacherous. He would never do that to her. No matter what might benefit from the outcome.

“What if we were to wed?” Sansa gapes up at him, in awe and guilt, just as he feels.

Sansa would pull away, if she were not leant into him, and she frowns. “Jon, you know we cannot, we are brother and sister-”

“Cousins, and it is winter, they will not care how we were raised. The North needs Stark heirs.” It is enough to convince the both of them, and she leans further into his palm, breaching his hand with her nose to smell him, her soft lips offering soft kisses.

Jon removes his hand and tucks her head into his chest. He is protecting her, just as he swore her he would. That this formidable culpability that fades under her touch is nothing to worry about, that he is not terrible, a disfigurement of everything lady Catelyn feared. That what he does to pleasure himself is not a bastards lust, that is only dealt with his separation- he is a fool. It means nothing.

That does not stop him from entertaining the idea that he does this for her mere protection, not just to have her, love her, to keep her as his. Even as he acknowledges what he does, what he thinks of when he is with another, he refuses to. Because this is for protection. For her welcome safety.

This is what he tells himself.

This is what he knows he will tell Ygritte.

 

* * *

 

Jon cannot find it in himself, the heart to compare or otherwise trudge himself for what he has done. That he wed Sansa, even as Ygritte drank herself away, watched scornful. Pleading almost.

It is sick, and yet he cannot do it, not when his mouth is buried in Sansa’s cunt. Not when she tastes all the sweeter, just as he imagined, not when she moans out his name and begs for more. That he touch her, feel her, that he do everything a true lover does.

His cock hardened the moment he saw her legs glow in the firelight, and it actually hurts to leave it stiff, as never before. He wants her. More than he has wanted anything else in this world, he wants to sheath himself inside and spill his seed, to plant a child in her womb.

However, it is hard to pull himself away from her mound, where her juices gloss over his lips. Where she bucks and pulls, grinding into his mouth in desperate measure. Flicking at her clit, sucking, licking, burying himself further so he may drown in her. He has never tasted something as delicious, and he makes sure to tell her this.

“Your cunt is so sweet, Sansa.” He rasps. “It was made for me, a feast just for me, only for me.” Sansa can only nod in a fervent manner, her legs coming round to lock him tight, he grunts and groans into her. Plunging his tongue between her folds and deep inside, teeth brushing her nub; she comes with a great force.

Bucking high and low, seating her hips into the hitch of the bed as he licks her down from her peak. He pulls away, her wetness lapsed over his beard and mouth, she opens her legs willingly. Throbbing just as he, Jon kisses her with a fever never known, coming to rest atop her and sinks himself inch by inch into her lovely cunt.

Sansa is everything he imagined and more. Taut, slick, hot, holding onto him like a vice. He moves when she digs her heels into his ass, her knees skimming his back, it takes everything within him not to pound, to shudder in release the second he pulls out and reenters.

The Gods know they are testing him, for they have to be real for someone like Sansa to exist. Perfect in every way. Sansa is beautiful, intelligent, heavenly, and has a cunt so divine he still has a hard time believing he is inside her, that he can make love to her like this whenever they are in need of doing so.

Melding his lips to her own in a heated kiss, he brings a leg up, and she utters that he quicken his pace. That he fill her with his seed. Jerking just at the mere sight, he spreads her legs further and watches as he delves in and out.

His thumb drawing lazy circles over her nub as she moans out “Yes, yes, please Jon, give me your child, your heir, please.” And he must follow command, for she is now his Queen, and Jon is quite smitten with her. His thrusts become erratic, and it takes little time to come. Sansa doing so with him, clenching around his cock as he spends.

A great warmth spreads over him, doused in his sweat and her own, she wraps her arms around him as he hides his head in the crook of his neck.

“I love you.” Sansa hums, vibrant and slick, as if she had just now understood what she has felt all this time.

Jon cannot help but smile, even as the sobs outside his door make him weak- he is _horrid._ He should be disgusted. That does not kill the endearment he is well endowed with, all of it for her. For Sansa. His wife and Queen. “As I do you.”

There is a place for him in the seven hells, he is certain, as there was none and that is well enough. But he knows, deep inside, he will never find to be guilt ridden as long as Sansa is in his arms. He feels for her stomach, his hand enveloping the graph of smooth skin, and he thinks of what might soon grow there, a son or daughter, with red hair and grey eyes, perhaps even silver hair, his own child-

Jon knows he does not have it in him to stay guilty. Nor does he plan to


	31. Kings and Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is forced to a private feast with Daenerys and their lords. A way to win her over, for Jon has asked the Queen of Dragons to abide by Sansa to give way to the North. This only manages to infuriate the wolf maiden, whom gives her warnings. (Part two will contain sexual content)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just recently passed two thousand (nine hundred…nearly three thousand!) followers, I don’t know how you all even began following me, but I am not one to question it! So I decided to write a two part series. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones

***

***

Honeyed wine is laid across the long table, beside porked pig and cow, chicken legs and broth all side by side. The fruits do nothing to mask the hardy stench. Not that Sansa does much to change her position in where she sits. The meats before her and the fruits directly across the Dragon Queen for good measure.

She had asked for them and Jon gave in. The lovely Queen had taken her seat next to Jon as well, forcing Sansa to sit across from lord Tyrion and beside Arya. Not that she minds that either, both are good company. More so Arya than Tyrion.

Noncommittal conversations begin and end at this table, for they are on their lonesome, away from the large chamber filled with Northmen and smallfolk. With winter here Sansa has invited any who wish to come to feast, and plans to do so until they cannot no longer. Handing out food had not gone well the last she did it.

They had stolen from each other. They cannot do that to one another with soldiers watching. And Sansa entrusts her men to not do the same to the helpless. However one can never be too careful, it is why she wished to sit with the rest of her people. As father and mother did before her.

But the Dragon Queen insisted they have a private feast. Sansa had near rolled her eyes at the request. Wished to ask if the smallfolk disgusted her. She knew it was unfair, likely more to speak of what to do with the dead and the North in private. For they have not come to a conclusion in their council meetings.

Jon has sought for Daenerys to wait for Sansa’s approval in giving way to the North as to not offend the North man, she needs them on her side, if they believe she stole the throne there will be war- Jon has been doing his best to convince her it is the right thing. Sansa thinks otherwise and has held off her response for some time. She wonders if this is why they have been brought to a private feast?

Even so her patience is wearing thin, having not touched the food, only the wine. Every now and then Arya will glance towards Sansa with a worried brow, just like Jon’s when in such a state. However he has not managed the trouble to look at Sansa, much too infatuated with the Queen beside him.

The table talk is grossing, a terribly long wait and she is tempted to sneak a sip of the fermented goats milk Tormund snuck her before she entered. She can feel it now in it’s wine skin, fingers pinching the pouch.

Sansa is convinced that if she has lasted this long there is no need for it. However she has been proven wrong before and she is not about to second guess strategy. Better to be drunk than remember this dutiful night. Ladylike or not she does not care. Courtesy be damned.

It is sad she has come to be this desperate. Mayhaps it would be best to excuse herself? And she nearly does, but before she can even press the request Daenerys speaks. “Lady Sansa, I have heard a great deal about you.” Her voice is smooth, just like the warm wine. Sansa turns to look at the Queen, who eyes her without preamble.

“A great deal?” Sansa questions carefully. Sour wine tingling on the back of her tongue. She wishes to reach over and barrel the rest of the canter into her stomach until she is free of this. They should be preparing for war not feasting.

Daenerys nods. A pleasant smile gracing her lips. “Yes. A maiden of ice as beautiful as flame. With a voice of angels and of tales that incite chivalry and courage.” Sansa hides the sigh. Was this to be an ice breaker? Sansa and her long forgotten stories? Daenerys mayhaps thought it would bring them closer, and the Queen closer to the North, Sansa does not trust this woman. Not her schemes nor her knack for burning those who defy her alive. Sansa had made up her mind long ago and the North does not belong to Daenerys Stormborn. “Perhaps you could perform?” Sansa is no bard and to be treated as such without the pay is, in all respects, irritating.

Tyrion is quick to counter. “I believe the lady Sansa would rather not.” Daenerys gives him a frown, not of warning but regret. Would it be awful to sing once more? Yes, it would. Sansa did not care for the Queen’s entertainment, she had Jon for that. The thought slanders her.

She can barely look at him as it is. To think of this at dinner? Must she torment herself? “It would be grand to hear one of your wondrous tales, then.” Daenerys replies, looking to Sansa with the tilt of her head. She can see it now. It is more of a demand rather than a request. To fill the airy space no voice fills.

Sansa, in the right mind, might have claimed her dreary exhaustion and left for the night. Leaving them all to their festivities. Arya might even follow just to be rid of the Dragon Queen, perhaps even stay up late with Sansa so they may plan as they waste away. Sansa would think Jon might be the same. But since he came back with her he will not listen to reason. As if he were her lap dog.

He claimed it to be dangerous to disagree. She has dragons. Sansa believes it has nothing to do with the beasts and more in what lies between her legs. It dries her throat to think of it. Twists her stomach in a coil tight enough to bleed her dry. In the end, she does not let it show. Simply sinks into the back of her chair and sighs.

What choice does she have? As much as she wishes to leave she knows it will be seen as an offense to the new Queen in the South- Sansa refuses to give her the North. No matter how Jon may try to convince her it is for the best.

It is now that she decides she will need the goat milk, bringing the wineskin up and taking a sip. The taste is bitter and sour, quite uncommon, and despicably terrible. But she can already feel it numb her nerves, if only a little. Sansa does not pay heed to the imp. Who watches in in concern. A worry she does not want nor need.

Licking her lips she seals the skin and sets it back down on her lap. It is now that when she glances back up that she finds Jon’s eyes on her. Another view of worry there in the open. It is his stare that urges her to continue, to prove a point, to push him? She does not know why nor care. For once she will not abide by a higher power simply because he gawks at her.

“What story would you like to hear your grace?” Sansa inquiries, acting the innocent. For Daenerys seems to think her as such. Does she not know the pains she has wade through? Obviously not, for she would not treat Sansa with the pity of an orphan.

Daenerys plucks at a snowberry. “I believe we have all heard them all- perhaps something new? Is there hope for such a request?” Perhaps Sansa is foolhardy, or the fermented goats milk is now doing it’s work, or she wants to see a reaction. A petrified mad Queen? What better way than to spend her evening? To make her uncomfortable as she has done to Sansa herself time and time again. Making her the fool to believe Jon might love her only to wrap him about her legs.

To make her believe they could entrust each other for they both knew the hardships as ruling women, only to be cast away as a child with no knowledge. Or, mayhaps it is her mother digging her nails into Sansa and snapping her into motion. To prove herself a wolf. And wolves do not bode well when backed into corners, kept away from their pack. An eerily action the Dragon Queen has continued.

“Yes, for you your worship.” Sansa hums, her heart thundering within her chest. For now she looks to be as large as life, something to squash before it overwhelms Sansa. “Have you heard of the lady Lysarra the wolf maiden? I believe it is ripe for storytelling.” Sansa can feel Arya shift beside her. Uneasy in what Sansa must be itching to say.

However, Arya does not stop Sansa. They may be the sun and moon, but the same blood runs through their hearts, and both know whom must be put in their place.

Daenerys shakes her head, a small smile perking as she takes a sip of her wine. “I have not.” From the corner of her eye Sansa can make out Tyrions frown. Sansa does best to ignore it. “Please, continue.”

If the Queen wished, commanded, Sansa supposes she must. “There once was a wolf maiden of Winterfell, a lady named Lysarra- as fresh as the snow that laid at her feet. Young and innocent and delusional. For she had been promised a world of sweetness, heroism, and romance. The good a light for the populace to bathe within without a care in the world.” Sansa carts her attention away and back to her wine.

“This lady wolf had wished to see the great city beyond the cold, to feel its warmth, to see its colors, to be the first of the pack to witness the candles at night. Each set alight against a blanket of black. The pup had been promised by the wolf, her father, she would become Queen and had been promised to it’s future King. She had been overwhelmed with the news and traveled her way to the lions den, the first of her kind to enjoy the sight and not shrink because of it.”

“She had given her love to her promised, a lion, and his mother the lioness. A great deal of it. For her heart grew weary at nights at the mere attention they received. But that love had been repaid with cruelty. The lady’s father had been accused of a treacherous crime, one he did not commit. The wolf maiden could only beg her beloved to free him, to offer mercy. And she had been promised as much- instead, his head had been take and she was left to the mercy of the lions den.”

Tyrion coughs awkwardly, holding his breath as the rest of the chamber does as well. Sansa glances up, Daenerys watching intently. Waiting. “She lost her hope that day, her soul perhaps, some even say her heart. For she grew distant and cold. To be stuck in the enemy’s fortress, to be entrapped by liars, traitors, those with an intent to harm her; it had been horrid. And soon, the lady wolf’s eldest brother raised arms and fought against the crown. ‘He will never win’ many had told her. ‘He is a beast in the night, a wolf made man’ the rumors only served to give her strength. A belief that he would come for his beloved sister. However it never did diminish her fear.”

“Lysarra had been made a plaything for the King, tormented under his watchful eye, and a jest for the Queen. To be beaten, ridiculed, stripped in front of the entire court and knights that would have let her drowned if they could.” Sansa near trembles at the memory.

Dany tilts her head, disappointment in her lilac hue. “Why did she not fight back? She needn’t be pushed around, it is weak.” Daenerys admonishes. “There is always a way to win, to fight-”

“How could she?” Sansa interrupts, narrowing her eyes. “She had been locked away, surrounded by enemies, her family dead and she named a traitor. Every noble that named her friend only wished for her titles and land. They betrayed her the moment they could. You see, she did not have dragons to whisk her away, a dothraki horde at her back, thousands to follow her as she made her conquest, there had been no one to praise her good deeds or knights to carry their oaths- Lysarra had been in constant danger. She was surrounded by a court of enemies and managed to fool them all and keep her head, even as she had been named traitors seed, married off to a dwarfed lion despised by all and made a jest, she had kept her head intact.” Sansa spits.

No one breathes a word. No one at all. “The wolf had become a bird, wounded wings beating against her gilded cage until it snapped- kept to a man named teacher, father, uncle, and lover- not by choice. Lysarra only wished for home, for her family, and so she took it by storm. Forced to wed a man she did not know, the true traitors to the wolves, and lost her sanity for a time, her faith, but she braved the terror, as her brother once had. She took it back, with her wit and her disgrace, she took back what was hers without dragons, an army of ninety thousand, a fleet, nor fire. She didn’t need their help. Lysarra had killed all those who dared to touch her, had fed them to hounds, had thrust titans off her castle of snow, and has somehow lost all that she adores.”

They are staring, their hearts the sound of thunder, and Sansa near winds away when Arya takes her hand in her own. A source of comfort and courage. Daenerys has already downed her wine, glaring. She understood, the Targaryen was no fool. “Many claim she lives in the cold itself now, long since dead. Some claim they are true, the rumors, this Lysarra had turned to ivory, to porcelain, to steel. Marred in winter’s winds and the howl of its untimely demise.”

Sansa should stop. But she doesn’t. Growing a backbone she thought she had lost. “Through her conquest of winter, she had become heir to the North, Riverlands, and the Vale.” Sansa stands, a warning in her eyes and the intent in making her absence soon to be known. For her defiance to be heard. “Lysarra Stark knows a tyrant when she see’s one, a mad woman when she meets one, for she has lived with them all her life. And to give away her home to one? Her rights as heir- it is not just. So she will not.” Sansa does not see the point in hiding behind the name, not any longer.

No matter how entertaining it is to watch them all fumble over understanding. “I, Sansa Stark, Wardeness of the North, the Trident, and the Vale, hand of the King and heir to the Northern throne refuse to bend the knee. I do not need a crown to have more power than you, I have taken more with my wit than your force, I would imagine myself a great threat with half of Westeros as my subjects and mine alone your grace. Your dragons do me no fear. His ‘grace’ may tremble at the mere thought but I do not. I have walked through the flames of hell and have survived. I will not cower to a mad woman and her threats because she tempts the very same.”

Daenerys’ face pinches red, her eyes darkening as she stands to meet Sansa eye to eye. A dragon’s screech is heard outside the walls of Winterfell. “Do you truly hold no fear for a dragon and what it may impose on your people? By all rights this land is mine and mine alone, I am of house Targary-”

“I do not care for your titles, ‘Dragon Queen’.” Sansa hisses. The chamber unsteady and alarmed. Sansa speaks over both Jon and Tyrion’s reasonable suggestions for peace. “I care for my lands, my rights, my people. Your dragons have done no good but present themselves as weapons against the long night and the dead. I have no doubt Jon will soon be able to hold reign over them as you do yourself, in the end you are useless to me.” Sansa swipes at the skirts of her gown as if this had been simple chatter over the weather.

Daenerys is enraged, a fire spewing out hatred. It is what Sansa wanted, she supposes, for the Queen to lose her calm. With her lords and followers watching Sansa is certain it does not look good to be so easily threatened nor pushed. Not when you have dragons and definitely not when your supposed subject is not afraid of them.

Sansa would think herself afraid of the giants, but she has been raised up by beasts and monsters, they are no different. “Try as you may but my lands will never be yours.” Sansa curtly puts.

Arya, she is smirking, not daring to hide the expression as it holds power. Sansa thinks she can feel the Northern lords doing so as well, the cocksure smiles pushing her through this exchange. It is in the air. They support her.

Daenerys is not pleased with the outcome. The twitch in her eyebrow says it all. “I wonder if you will still think this way when I burn it all down? You know well as I that they are mine by right, I have fought for them, risen as the last dragon-”

“Because your father burned people you believe the iron throne and the inhabitants of this country to be yours?” Sansa tilts her head for it is her turn to act the woman across from her is dense, not the other way ‘round. “No one bows to you, as you have seen through your reign of terror, burning them alive will not encourage them to bend the knee and make you Queen. You are only noble in mind, so lost in the ideal you are the only true hero you cannot see you have become the monster of this land.”

“You dare make accusations-” Daenerys begins.

“I do.” Sansa cuts her short. “I may not have birds that sing me songs of truth, but I have wolves, and they howl louder than any bird may sing.” Varys, a man she had undoubtedly disregarded, flinches. Good. It is the reaction she wants. “And howl they have. You, a Targaryen, a mad Queen, have killed thousands in the belief it will get you somewhere. It will not, the moment you raise arms I will have slaughtered your unsullied, your second sons and the horde you have brought across the realm. It would seem it is much too cold for them and I doubt they will fair well in a battle of hardened North men.” Sansa inhales the maelstrom and squeezes Arya’s hand.

The lords murmur their approval, knocking horns of wine and ale in agreement with their heir. And under their breath, she hears it, _‘Queen in the North’._  “You speak of dragons, but I am a wolf and winter is here.” Sansa tucks in her chair. “Your dragon’s breath will not warm your halls, you need me more than I you, for once the North loses the war you will be left to the mercy of the undead. I offer one deal, and one alone, you will release your dragons to Jon. You will take the South of what is untouched by my hand, and you will be their Queen. But no further will you reach. I do not trust you, not your hold over dragons, nor your intentions, and you will do best in listening to me.”

Daenerys does not respond, merely gnaws her lip in a fury gone unprotected, fists clenched. “For today I am King, I am winter, and I am the Stark that reigns the dragon to its knees, if the rest will not.” Sansa turns to leave, stopping at the doorway she looks to the group who stare in awe and fear. “Do not test my power and do not tempt my fury, for it belongs to a wolf maiden and her pride, and you will lose.”

When Sansa exits the chamber, she knows there will be war, Daenerys will not allow another to slander her as such. The woman is convinced the rest belongs to her. But Sansa is ready. She has been since the moment Daenerys and her dragons were rumored South.

Dragons may breathe fire, but they are not immune to the secret that lies beneath Winterfell’s crypts. One drop of her blood and they will rise at her command and freeze those in her wake, the beasts and Daenerys’ men will fall- and why not? They were prepared to do so for their mad Queen anyhow.

Winter is here and Sansa means to hold the Stark legacy with great stride and to do what none could manage. Slay the dragon and put an absolute end to her tyranny.

For the other, one of dark curls and dark eyes, she knows he follows. Especially after her speech. And she is prepared to keep this one on her side, alive, no matter how it pains her so. She cannot help her heart despite her mind. Sansa is a survivor, she endures, it is known.

But she cannot choose who she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is a bit lame, but I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you all did too!


	32. Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for the 'Until hell freezes over' gift challenge on Tumblr. I didn't think to post it on here until now...So yeah, enjoy I guess!

***

***

Jon had always prided himself in being an honest, honorable man. Even in his youth he never strayed. Not once. However, later in his years, he found himself leaving the path Ned Stark had set him upon only to taste that of his oldest daughter.

He could not believe the string of events, and it all took place at Robb’s wedding. In all honesty he never imagined sleeping with Sansa Stark. She got on his nerves in every way possible. From how she would snipe at his slouch at the dinner table (when he would eat over, that is) to the prettiest sneer he’d ever seen a woman wear.

He was improper and she the most proper human he knew. But even she had her dower moments. That much showed when she had tugged him into her hotel room, when he had boiled under her touch, something unbearable popped in the both of them. Jon had thought maybe they were drunk, or tried to convince himself of that much. 

But he would never take advantage like that and he knew for certain he was far from impaired. Yes, he once prided himself as the kind, noble, but dormant Jon Snow. Practically raised by Ned Stark himself. Yet he knows Ned would not enjoy knowing that Jon still sleeps with his daughter.

That he now has found himself comfortable in sharing his bed with her, has left a drawer empty for her things when she visits, and that he has more than two boxes of condoms at ready. For fucks sake, he shares more than just a drawer. He has found Sansa wearing his shirts, briefs, has made him morning coffee and visits him at work. Because now it is a habit. Sansa Stark, lovely and demure, hell in heels and a sweetheart to those who only know her saccharine songs. And it all took place at his best friends wedding.

Now, as of current, he blinks slowly. His fingers slowly skimming up and down along her bare arm. Auburn curls hide his pillows and part of his arm. All that honor down the drain for a secret affair that has no name. Sometimes he wonders if it is worth it. Worth her. If all this trouble is needed.

Because when he thinks of the precautions, of what could happen if Ned Stark found out Jon spoiled his daughter, he might be thrashed. Or worse. Robb would hear of this. Robb Stark, the very brother, the very man Jon promised to. Practically made an oath to watch out for Sansa in the ‘big city’. It’s not like he broke that promised. Simply added more to it.

 _‘Be certain she comes before himself.’_ Jon might add, _‘Have her quiver, tighten, and scream his name.’_ he would never claim. And there’s a small bit just at the back of his mind, merely a whisper of what could be, but he can’t remember it. If he does it may as well be a declaration of love. Jon adores the woman in his arms, the slick of her cunt, the smell of her skin, how she flushes at the slightest innuendo.

And then there’s the small things, the sort he never thought to look out for. For instance when she taps her feet when she bakes, when she sings in the shower, or how she always stops on her morning jog to smell the flowers or simply enjoy the view. More recently he has learned that she loves to wake early and watch the sunrise. Just the other day he found her gone, his chest had sunk, only to have relief fill him when he found her just outside on the roof. When he had asked her what she was doing she responded _‘Watching the sunrise. You never know when it will be gone.’_

For some reason those words stuck with him, and they repeat right now. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear he smiles. Something more than warmth and satisfaction washing down as he kisses her neck. Soft and tender and just how she likes- no loves it.

Sansa hums out, pressing her ass into his groin. He might have responded by settling inside her. Instead he tucks her in, caging her to his chest. There is a slight giggle that escapes her lips. He can still imagine them on his own. Soft as silk and tastes like lemon cakes.

He sighs, breathing her in. “I…” Jon mutters, heart pounding the sound of thunder in his chest. He squeezes and Sansa might have turned if she had the space. Just to look at him. If he closes his eyes and can see her eyes, doe like and perfect. Just like her. Even with her flaws, all of them more outrageous than the other, make his body tighten and he needs a release.

But he can’t say it. Not yet. Not when he questions the relationship he has created with Sansa Stark. Not when he fears she may never look at him the same way if he does. It doesn’t matter that it lies on the tip of his tongue, waiting for him to admit what pounds in his heart, his mind. He couldn’t until he knew for sure what they were. What he is to Sansa. “Sleep.” He utters. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” At this she kisses the inside of his wrist that has somehow found it’s way across her chest.

“Good.” Sansa is exhausted. Jon can hear it in her voice. “See you soon?” It’s the sort of question meant to be a joke. Nevertheless he answers wholeheartedly.

Jon repeats “I’ll be here.” At this she settles into his arms, no restraint, becoming a flower waiting in bloom. Jon burrows his face deeper into the slant of her neck. It is simple now, he thinks, in this moment with Sansa next to him.

This, what they have, is worth the world.


	33. Misconception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lathwell55 asked: Hi! I saw you were open for prompts. How about Jon is initially pleased with the way Sansa wants to learn more about the wildlings but he is embarrassed when he overhears some of the crass conversations the spearwives have with Sansa (who finds the whole thing amusing)? Love your writing by the way! Xx

Initially, Jon had been thrilled that Sansa wished to learn more of the Free Folk. That she wanted to know their ways, how they were accustomed to their new life, and if they craved to speak. Sansa had always been that of a pleaser, always maintaining the joy of those around her with songs, courtesy, and her lovely smile.

It is why he decides to introduce her to Val, the men, and to the spearwives whom all shared a similar interest. Getting to know the great lady of Winterfell. None have been close enough to a ‘southron’ lady before and he can only assume they all share a curiosity over her.

So when Jon had left her to the keep of Val, who had promised him she would be safe, and the spearwives he held little worry. Jon simply left Sansa to her own devices and wandered off with Tormund at his side. 

Yes, initially he had been so proud of her he could feel his delight rummage through his bones. So many believed them to be beasts. Yet Sansa, who had grown up on the belief that they were, pushed that thought aside and shared her exuberant presence with them all.

But he can feel it drain as he chokes on his ale, coughing out as Tormund thrusts out a hearty laugh. For a spearwife just asked Sansa, a flawless lady in her own right, the last Stark he promised to protect (And by the Gods that meant from this sort of language), if she had ever ridden a man. Or perhaps let him sup at her cunt.

Jon sets his ale down, shocked as Val chuckles at the shock evident in Sansa’s eyes. As if she were processing what they had all just asked of her. Jon swears, he will have to speak to Val at a later date, and alert the woman to what is okay to ask a lady and isn’t.

Before he can march over however, Tormund yanks him back down. Jon shoots him a glare, one of warning and confusion. “Let me go.” Jon grits.

Tormund shakes his head. That jolly smile of his filling in what felt to be a gap in his vibrant beard. “They don’t think we can hear, I say we wait and listen.” Jon shakes his head.

“No, I can’t allow-”

Jon is interrupted, much to his surprise, by Sansa’s response. “No, I cannot say I have.” Sansa tilts her head at the women. “I’ve actually never felt pleasure, to be quite honest.” Jon’s mouth twists upon hearing such detail.

She sounded amused rather than upset. Aslaug, the only one he knows currently with child, gasps. As if she were the one to be offended by such a reply. Val eyes her carefully, taking a hefty sip of wine with a pale look. It’s the wine Sansa had brought. She had been so certain they would like it. And she wasn’t wrong, considering they seemed to have drank it all.

“Really?” Aslaug asks, mouth agape in shock. Sansa nods, bringing her horn of wine close to her chest.

Val does not appear pleased upon hearing such a thing. “You’ve never shared your bed?” The blonde cocks her head.

Sansa smirks. “I’ve shared my bed. But I have yet to encounter a man I have enjoyed.” Jon thinks she must mean Harry, the man had little charm and was much too smug. All he knows is that he is dead, and by Sansa’s hand no less.

At this, Val glares, not at Sansa but to whomever must have made her feel this way. Jon is quiet when Val sends that scowl to him, brows furrowed in a way she only shares with her enemies. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. Only that he stomach churns at such attention.

Tormund notices it as well and frowns. “Why’ she angry with you?” He hunkers over bringing Jon close. He can only shrug, feeling guilty of whatever she has accused him of even if he is certain he is not.

Val, with the purse of her lips, says “And here I thought Jon to be a gentle lover.” At this Sansa loses her sad smile, pauses, and allows her horn of wine to slip through her fingers.

“What?” Sansa gapes.

Val retreats from Jons attention and returns it to Sansa. “Must I teach him a lesson?” Val growls. “No man, even Jon, shall keep you from enjoying yourself Sansa. Trust me, I will put an end to it.” Val almost stands, much to Jon’s digression.

Sansa gawks in a horrified manner. “I think you have mistaken yourself, I have never shared my bed with Jon.” Sansa scurries to pick up her wine, fingers skittering to and fro.

Jon himself is aghast, mouth flung open in awe. Did Val just insinuate Jon and Sansa- no, she did not insinuate, she thought it a fact and made it sound as such.

Val, just like the rest of the spearwives, look utterly addled. None of them speak, as if pending on what had just been declared. Did they really believe Sansa and himself to be…Lovers? In what reality did that appear as it did?

Sansa is quick to add “I’ve only shared it with a man once, my bed that is, however he is dead.” The spearwives watch her with little concern. “Why would you ever- in what way- I don’t understand…” Sansa cannot speak, face now flushed as Val looks just as much embarrassed as Sansa herself.

“I apologize.” Val proclaims. “With how you two interact I thought it obvious that you were…” The wildling stares at the fire. “Are you sure you have never, not even once, slept with the man?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I am positive.” Jon can feel his face heat up at the mere implication. Had they truly interacted in such a manner that they thought Jon slept with Sansa?

By the Gods if father were here Jon would have lost his will to live, he cannot even begin to fathom how lady Catelyn would respond to such indications. He’s so caught up in what they thought he doesn’t notice the hours that pass by, not until Sansa herself takes him by the shoulder in concern.

“Jon, are you alright?” Subconsciously he nods. “Good, we should return before Rickon throws a fit.” Jon stands, following behind her like a lost dog. And it is then, as he admires the way the autumn gold of her hair, that Jon realizes why they thought what they did.

Jon cannot keep his eyes off her. The moment he found her in the Riverlands he’s found little comfort from anyone but her. With a deep sigh he folds his arms. Perhaps they could speak of this when they return to Winterfell?

He would certainly like to.


	34. Duty is the Death of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was made for fun, I know this doesn't happen, but oh well. Fanfiction was made for this sort of thing! I also had a theory running that Gendry was brought to DragonStone to marry Dany, which would be a killer move on her part, and am still hoping it happens. I feel that would be a shocker to a lot of watchers.

When Jon returns to Winterfell Sansa is flooded in relief. He is a brightness amidst the toil she has fought against in his absence. With Littlefinger dead she is free, yet restrained as lady to Winterfell, as protector to Bran, and sister to Arya.

Jon is, despite all they have been through, the one thing that lightens the darkness. Even if the snowfall is brighter, heavier than ever before. She is before the Weirwood praying for his safety when she see’s him again.

It begins with the footfalls, the crunch of snow, and she near thinks it is Arya, Meera, or perhaps even Daenarys come to visit in her time of worry. For the false Queen claimed she could not save the White Wolf, and left him to the Wall and his death. Her shock is of great measure when Jon is the one whom appears beside her, his furs broad, yet somehow they hug him perfectly.

Sansa is shaken from her prayers, his hand on her shoulder, and when she turns to look who it is her heart is relieved of its spell. The pain of the unknown, of another Stark losing their life for honor or duty, for making the wrong move; but he is there. Before her with those large eyes, alive, breathing for her.

It has been some time but it is the first the Old Gods have answered her pleads. By the seven hells, he is the reason she prayed in the first place in such a long time.

Sansa cannot restrain the pitter in her chest, the glee that overwhelms her as Jon steps back, giving her space she once thought she needed with any and all men. But not her Jon. With a slight smile she pulls him back and hugs him tight. Jon is hesitant at first but repeats her ministrations.

Her head crowds the crook of his neck, he smells horrid, and somehow she cannot care for it. It also means instead of bathing he searched for her. Sansa’s stomach churns and leaps at the thought.

When she pulls away after a moment she presses a palm to his cheek, cupping his face in unrelenting adoration. Jon leans in, he himself looking both pleased and relieved.

Another moment and Sansa says “Why did you do it?” It seems to catch him off guard, Jon pulling away to glare beyond the Weirwood. Sansa can feel the struggle, the void that tightens it’s grip, this war is taking it’s toll and it has not yet begun.

Sansa twists towards the Heart Tree, praising it’s kindness, praising it for Jon. He is next to her, his arm snug against her shoulder. “I had to.” He exerts a forced voice, one of annoyance. Sansa glances up at him with concern.

Sansa can think of many reasons as to why he would go far beyond the Wall. But that was not her question, even if she would appreciate an answer to that one as well. “I meant why was I not warned, Jon.” She reiterates.

Jon stiffens. The snow is silent, smooth, collecting along his head like a crown. It fits him, she thinks, for he is King. And Kings wear crowns. Robb wore one, but it was made of copper and iron. Jon’s is flexible, it turns tide when need be, it is why she is certain he will not lose his head to a woman’s affections.

Or so she hopes.

“I could not face you, I feared you would hate me for leaving.” Jon admits. “I knew you would refuse my expedition. But I swear to you, I had no choice.” Sansa believes him, she attempts to show as much when she nods to him.

Sansa had been furious at first. He had come in the night taking their men, leaving here without his warmth to comfort her. When Brienne had explained where exactly he had gone Sansa had felt her heart drop and the worst fear came to mind. His death.

It was a miracle that the Red Woman awoke him from the dead in the first place. A second would be impossible, no? Not with an army of undead waiting for him. She had paced the entire day, the rest of her time spent here, at the Weirwood.

Sansa pends on what to say next. “I was told you left with good intentions Jon, I believe you, I am just curious as to why you did. It was foolhardy, you are King with no set heir, and you left.” Sansa exclaims, exasperated. It near sounds she is scolding him, and she thinks she is, but it is hard to tell with the worry mending both.

Jon looks to her as if the answer were clear. “I needed proof. The Targaryen Queen refused to believe my proposal and sent us away.” Sansa fumes under her breath. This would not be happening if not for the Iron Throne.

It is a vile thing, it changes people, twists them to it’s will. It turns good people cruel. She has seen it first hand. Has watched the light fade into the depths of despair with little manipulation. Power can go to one’s head if there is too much. Makes them become something they once were not.

Sansa would have become victim if not for Jon, she fears. “Truly?” Sansa narrows her eyes upon the tree, folding her arms. Thinking of the Queen she met, Jon’s men piling off of Drogon covered in mud and blood, Sansa was certain she would agree now. She should have seen it all, if what Jon says is the case. “What in Seven Hells did she expect?” Jon sniggers at her words.

“I do not know. But I have retrieved what I need.” Jon confirms, his eyes landing on Sansa’s form. She can feel his stare, it is hard, warm, it never leaves.

Tully blue drowns the deep grey before her as she says “And what is that?”

Jon sucks in a breath. “I stole one away from the Night Kings army. I believe the Queen is inspecting he creature now, closely.” Sansa’s mouth drops open, the cold air drying her tongue and the snowflakes kissing her lips. She must look a child in fright with how Jon seemingly worries over her. “It will not harm you nor anyone here, that I swear.” Setting a hand on her shoulder he adds “I would not allow it, I promise Sansa.”

Even if promises are sweet lies made for dreaming damsels, his always put her at ease. There is something about Jon that makes her feel unconditionally safe notwithstanding the dangers of the game. As if he could topple mountains for her if she asked.

Sansa has not felt this sort of trust for any man since father or Robb. It is an old friend left to burn beneath the ghosts of her life. The spirit of her hope rising with each step Jon takes, head held high, crown upright. As if it had been brought back to life beside him.

When he first became King Sansa felt a peak of distrust, unwarranted, but it soon faded just as it was born. He had sworn himself to Winterfell and what was left of their pack. Somehow, despite all odds, Jon has opened her heart to the few good men out in the world.

It gives her a sense of peace. Jon gives her peace. It is a rare feeling and he is the key to it. Sansa does not know how but he is. All she does know is that she is proud of him, even if he does stumble in his Kingship, it is why she is here. To help guide him through this game with his head still intact.

Sansa made the same promise that night. She did not say it aloud, it felt the truth unspoken, an oath she couldn’t break if not made for him to hear. It could not be torn within his knowledge if she were to ever fail him.

They are silent, enjoying the ceremony of tranquility laid between them, Jon is the first to disturb it sadly. “I fear she still may not help, not unless I bow and give way to the North.” Sansa stills at this.

“What makes you think that?” Sansa asks.

“I told her of the dead, she ignored me. Seven hell’s, she saw the dead. And she has yet to agree still.” Sansa about rebukes his fears, for the Dragon Queen could just be careful, as one should be, when he continues. “You have met her once, no? Here she acts kind…Sansa, she wants that throne and everything within this country. Including the North, she was very trying on the subject at Dragonstone.” Sansa is quiet as he finishes. “She mentioned ‘Fire and Blood’ with a rage I have not seen in anyone, and the throne and North with a greed that I distrust. Without a throne, I fear she may never endure the long night as we do. Not without a trade.”

Sansa wants to ask why he even went beyond the Wall in the first place, risking his life, if this is how he felt? Wants to shake him in her fury for the pain he put her through. The unending nights she stayed awake until dawn, heaving her fears and clenching her calm close.

Instead she says “What is it you plan to do if she denies our proposal?” Jon shakes his head.

“I don’t know.” He sighs aloud. “I figured you might have some idea on how to deal with her if she is not to accept.” Sansa gawks at him. Was he asking for her advice?

Her first instinct is to claim she has no idea either. No plan, no thought, no true ideal way to handle a woman with three dragons. Especially with the Dragon Queen having taken up residence here in Winterfell- Sansa and she do not speak, however her presence is known. But she thinks, pending on the situation, and while she dislikes her trail of thought she knows it to be true.

Littlefinger taught her many things while she had been in his reach, teaching her all there is to know of the game, how to make an immobile piece move without he or she knowing it. In fact it is the only useful lesson she has retained from her time with him.

And it is now that is comes back, gripping her by the shoulders and thrusting her forward. Daenerys Targaryen may seem still, unmoving, but every piece has it’s place. Even this Mother of Dragons. With each movement a weakness is spotted.

The first is evident in this light, next to Jon she scrunches her nose, for Daenerys is looking for a husband. “Offer her something else.” Sansa exclaims. Jon glances down at her, curious.

“And that is?” He asks.

Sansa takes a breath, every part of her screaming she doesn’t say it, but she must. If they are to prepare themselves and keep the long night at bay, she must ignore whatever it is she is feeling. “Wed her.” Sansa near heaves her frustration, distant in the sort of way that leaves her addled. “She is looking for a husband, give her one, give her an alliance with the North, therefore it is ours and she merely has your name to fall upon.” Jon gives her a look, one she cannot describe, it leaves her feeling hollow.

Nuanced in a direction of faithless ambition Sansa is squeezing her hand into a fist while Jon inhales, the quiet eating her alive. “No.” He finally says. “I will not give her what she wants. If she wishes to rule it must be with the kindness of her heart and the common sense that comes with it, not the wishes of a woman who would burn her people just as fast as she’d save them.”

Sansa feels relief. She does not know why, not really, the weight lifting from her chest at his denial; odd. The flutter beneath her skin, rippling in waves of sweet bliss, scare her. Why would she care whom he weds? Why does it matter?

The wolf maiden is much too afraid to dig for answers to this question. Fearing the outcome of what might be the cause of such infatuation.

“And, she is already wed to Robert Baratheon’s last heir. Gendry Baratheon.” Jon hums. “I met him at Dragonstone.” Sansa’s eyes widen at this. Arya had mentioned a Gendry in her sleep, Sansa thought perhaps it a nightmare, of a man who had hurt her.

Perhaps he did, maybe not, but this is no coincidence. “The dragon wedding the stag- that would be quite the sight.” Sansa drones. Jon nods, agreeing with her statement. Sansa pauses, for the weakness just grew. “Did she seem happy with him?” Sansa asks.

Jon eyes her suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just tell me Jon.” Sansa continues. “Did you notice a rift between the pair, did the Queen look unhappy with him?” Jon thinks for a minute, as if he were deciphering every moment until now.

Clearing his throat he nods. “She did look upset when he was around. Far more than she did around I.” At this Sansa stiffens but persists.

Another crack to tear apart, she hopes, for all women feel a pit when in a marriage that does not fit them. Anyone would. No matter how strong one pretends they hold on to the hope of love, for passion and songs; Sansa did once upon a time. It is likely this Queen may as well.

Any woman, Sansa believes, would fall for the man next to her given the right push. Jon may be her brother but he is good, brave, and strong. He is a knight without the shiny exterior. Sansa saw it atop Winterfell when he swore himself to house Stark. The gentle precaution he held around her kept Sansa at peace with him.

Sansa thinks her King is perfect for this, a mission made for the honesty he bears, the dignity and honor he lives by, it would feel real from him. No matter how terrible a liar he is. With Jon feeding into those desires…

Sansa halts, a lump in her throat choking her, a sour taste overwhelms her tongue as she bites down as hard as she can. A sensation close to drowning claws it’s way down her spine and churns at her abdomen. The bliss she harnessed not very long ago is turned to stone, ice, then ash. Melting in her fingers the way Snow does, icing the tips and burning the rest all at once.

She is ill, in a sense, and it takes a toll she does not expect. It is terribly difficult to push out her words, they never form as they should. Sansa knows she should, for her suggestion, as gruesome as it is, could save the North and Westeros as a whole.

Yet it pains her, the mere thought of Jon with another is like crushing her heart and throwing it back to the lions. It terrorizes her, breaks her down in a matter of seconds, fast enough to know she will forever hate herself if she pushes him to do this.

Sansa may not understand what it is she emotes towards a man she should not, would rather hold her tongue and keep it buried forever young, but this is Jon. The one man who has protected her without another cause. The one person who has cared for her since she was a child.

For the sake of the seven hells, he is kind to her and she suddenly doesn’t feel like sharing? What is wrong with her? Why must she yearn for something as forbidden as this, a fruit she cannot sink her teeth into for fear he may despise her as she will herself.

It hits her like a ton of stones when she realizes what this is, breathless, panicked, she says it before she can stop. Just so she may cover what she has discovered. A crack in her mask and a foil in her game.

“Then play her.” Sansa puts bluntly. “She is young and beautiful and unhappy. You say she feels entitled, then no doubt she feels the same for her heart. A woman of her youth will yearn for compassion and a love wild and free.” Sansa admits, her heart is heavier than ever before, and she may throw up.

Jon looks aghast, his mouth opening and shutting as if her suggestion- no, her orders are something unheard of. As if it goes against the laws of men and Gods alike. “You would have me seduce the Dragon Queen for support?” Jon stammers.

Sansa nods. Swallowing what she can of her pride, of her want, of her dreams. “That is exactly what I would have you do.” Licking her lips the cold sticks with a sting. “Let her believe your heart is hers. Love her, listen to her, worship her, keep her bed warm and whisper sweet nothings- kneel if you must. Let her believe she has won.”

She can see her future, barren and lonely, far from what she pictured for herself. A home with someone who loves her. She is foolish, thinking that she could have it, to believe herself grown yet she is still the child who searches for intimacy. For her own song to revive and blossom once again.

The world would have her burn before she lives it. Sansa learnt that a long time ago. How could she possibly think a foreseeable love in her hands grasp?

She is a stupid, stupid girl, with stupid dreams who never learns. An idiot for giving it away before it could grow. The one person she could trust and she sends him into the arms of another, in this moment she feels it does not matter their blood is shared, it still kills her inside.

To figure it out now, of all times, is mayhaps the worse part. However, she must move forward, for duty is the death of love. And duty will save them all, her game will protect them, not love. Love is what killed father, what killed Robb and mother, it has taken so many from her, she refuses it’s allowance to spoil their chance at happiness.

Even if that means letting go. Sansa must do so quickly, now in this moment, if not she will knot him to his side and never leave him be. Smother the man until they are at rest in the crypts.

Jon turns to her fully, looking all the more broad in his furs, Kingly too. “You think my sleeping with a woman will help, are you mad?” He sounds irritated, as if it is she who does not see the larger picture.

Nodding, she remains stoic, praying to the Old Gods for strength. They brought Jon back to her. Mayhaps the can steal him away too before she breaks. And if they will not help, Robb might, lending his bravery as he has once before.

“It works for many.” Sansa comments, cold, distant. Praying to be somewhere else.

Incredulous, Jon takes a step back, looks her over, and hisses out “No.” Sansa flinches at the ferocity of his rejection. Must he take his honor everywhere? Must he hold the North hostage for his stupid, fucking honor?

Sansa glares at him, it is delicate, soft, more so than she has shared with anyone else. “You would rather we die than put aside your honor for a night?” Sansa asks, teetering dangerously close to losing her preservation.

A way out is presented and he objects? He asked for her help and she is giving it. To think he would listen is like hoping the dead will decide to hold off their attack until the next Winter.

Though Sansa is aware that despite her frustration of him not listening, it is also the pain of pushing away. Of wanting him to take this chance so she may forget him sooner. To leave her her heart to thaw and heal.

“I would rather uphold moral, find a better way around this, than use a woman’s heart for men.” Jon argues, his brows knit tight.

Sansa is tempted to walk away, in the end she stands her ground. “Then why ask for advice if you will not take it?” Sansa snaps. “You do this every time, you ask, then snub it thereafter.” Before he can reply Sansa thrusts forward. “You want to win this war, you must do what it takes, for Bran and Arya you must. If that means you use the Dragon Queen for her armies, I see no fault, it is how the world works Jon. You of all people should know this.”

“Sansa, it is not right.” Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “There is another way, there has to be, I will not tolerate anything less.”

“Is her refusing to protect her people the other way, then? Is it what Queens do, is it dignified, honorable?” Sansa counters. “How is this wrong, how does this refute any route we may take? This is assurance, not death, not loss, but doing what it takes to survive. This is not the game,” Sansa warns, “this is something else entirely. Your honor must be left behind for us, Jon, for this.” She waves towards the Weirwood, the roof’s of Winterfell, mayhaps herself. She does not know.

The tension is thick, bearing down on the both of them as frost does the lakes and ponds. And to himself he murmurs something, barely audible, but she hears it all the same. “Duty is the death of love, and love the death of duty.”

Agape, Sansa does nothing, only watches. His expression shifts from torrid to something she cannot decipher. In an amount of time that could have scared her off, if she had no inquiry of his decision. If she did not dread and questioned it at the same time.

Sansa wants him to refuse again, to storm off in a rampage, but he doesn’t. He breaks her heart standing, looking at her with those eyes, those sad eyes. Full of mourning, death, and loss. They are a shade darker than father’s, somehow clear as day as well, filling her up with one flicker to another.

It will be the death of her, those looks, the care he puts into them. They are the only thing rather than his promises that seek her out at night. Beg that she falter and fall in line, trudge to him in sought of comfort, of breathy whispers that will continue to follow her the next day.

But those are dreams. And dreams never come true. They lead those blinded by the songs, the silks, the stories to their deaths.

“I cannot, Sansa, I…” He trails, weak and humble.

It is hard to be annoyed, to be irritated, for she feels the sorrow in sending him off once again. He needs to be gone for herself to recover yet he refuses as a child would. He needs to play the game for Winterfell to survive, and despite knowing this, is still acting a child.

It has her boiling, just as she might weep all the same. This array of emotion unbalanced, it tricks her with it’s inviting pleasure and she knows what she is to say will be their ruin.

Her mask finally shatters, lying at her feet in a thousand pieces, awaiting her heart. For it is her duty to find fault and threaten it, with sweet words and sweeter lies.

“Why not?” She seethes under her breath, for she is pushing away the one good thing that has occurred since she was but a child. “You claimed you would do what it takes to protect the North, you promised to protect our home, to protect us-”

“That is exactly why I cannot do as you ask.” He looks a King in every prospect in this light, even if he may never see it. “Can you not see that?”

Sansa shakes her head, an arm coming to cage her stomach in fear she may let loose what little wine she has drank. “Jon, Winterfell needs her dragons. Her land. I know your honor denies you this route-” Sansa tries, it is all she is willing to do, but is horrified by his response.

“Dammit Sansa!” It is quick and thoughtless, chilling her to the bone. He is a fire amidst the snow. He simmers before her, examining her the way he ought to as a child. The gloom is there as well, tying a knot to keep it all in. “I cannot and will not lie with the Targaryen Queen.” He howls, teeth bared and eyes sharp.

Sansa fumes with a heat uncalled for, nipping at the base of her flesh with a roiling trepidation. However, it sits well with her, the cold can never touch her in this state. “Why not?” Sansa repeats. Except her fury is tasting of metal and conjured vigor. “Why does this honor sit high above everything else?” Sansa steps forward, pushing him, for can he not see she struggles as he does? Sansa cracks under the weight, parts of herself collecting alongside the mask.

Tears threaten to peek out again, Sansa biting her lip to fight them back. When she does push he is like a rock. Unmoving and no amount of force she summons helps.

So she resorts to a half-hearted attack on the chest. “You nearly die, leaving me to the cold, and now that there is an option for survival you refuse?” Sansa is incredulous of his denial. He is King, he must take one step forward for the rest even if they fall behind.

He must do this for her, for Arya and Bran, for them. Otherwise she may fall further into the void than ever before. “I thought you a Stark, a man willing to risk it all when it comes to his family, his people, but it seems you know nothing of our name,” Sansa growls, “not of our ways or our duty to this house. You would rather us all die so you may preserve your damned-”

Heaving, she pounds against his chest, Jon allowing her to do so. Each hit harder than the last but it doesn’t seem to phase him he merely looks on, eyes the color of regret and wishful thinking- Of ash, blooms of smoke that whisper covenant but only end in blood.

“Fucking honor.” Sansa grits out, finishing what had collapsed under her winter sunken lungs. In fact she hisses what is left as a lion would towards their own kin. Harder and harder she jabs and hears herself say “You foolish man, a Stark would know better, you should know better!”

Jon stiffens at this. “A Stark would risk nail and bone for their kin, yet you cannot because you fear a woman’s love for you? You damned bastard, this is more important than some Queens feelings, this is-”

At this he takes hold of her wrists and raises his voice above her own. “I love you.”

Sansa goes rigid under him, his expression pale as snow.

What did he just say?

Jon stretches her out and digs her deep, holding her infuriation close to his chest with a balming embrace. One forged in dragon’s breath, for that is the only creature whose heat could do this to her.

Sansa fights it with all her being. Muddled, petrified, she wants to run and hide. He loves her? Does he mean what she thinks that means? It still does not sink in. And she doesn’t want him to hold her, not like this, not with how he spoke his conflict. She wants to scream, just as she wants him to match her high pitched fear, to shout ignorance and match pestilence.

Not hold her in this adoration that could tear her limb from limb. Her mind and heart war with one another and Jon worsens the inaction she has taken. Anger has been a priority in an attempt to hide affection. To hide what is forbidden, and with the Gods so close? She can sense bloodied scowls scowling at the both fo them. For they are Lannister and Targaryen and worse, Starks.

Starks dressed in scales and lion’s mane. Sansa is certain she is sick. It strangles what is left of her heart. To send him off and leave him in another woman’s arms but what is she to do? Love him as no sister should and let the long night sink it’s death into their land and family?

Jon strokes his gloved hand through her hair long before she can say no. Pinches the autumn gold between his fingers all the while stringing the curls through his fingers. He sinks before long, down to his knees, Sansa is made breathless. Gawking down in both pique and oddity as she rests his forehead against her abdomen, as if he were to worship her rather than the fabled being at Dragonstone.

He has fallen at her feet in a weakness she cannot describe, worried she about falls next to him, to be equal in measure, to worship in measure, to meet him face to face and not be above so high. She’d rather be at her knees alongside him, to amount this to something more than an uneven devotion from one side to the other. But his fingers pinch at her hips and she halts.

His hands crown, feeling for the smooth skin beneath the cotton and wool as he mutters “I love you,” He says it with so much virility, tenderness, and something akin to ruination. The air smells of doom, despite the winter roses approaching full bloom. “That is all I know Sansa. That I love you and no amount of men can change that.”

Sansa rests her hand atop his head, trailing it down his jaw to bring his attention back to her. Her lips quiver and a tear slips, just as quick as it appeared it fades. Sansa knows what she must do. Knows the road she must take.

She will forever despise herself for doing so as well. “You can’t.” The pout the size of the North covers his features, he is snow white and drowning in her skirts. His fingers dig deeper into her hips and Sansa sighs out. “Jon, please, don’t. Not now. Not like this.”

He heads her warning mixed plead and pulls away. An admiration exasperated beneath his treasured hope inflates as she does not refuse him entirely. But she knows the truth and it burns hotter than any dragons flame and conceals far worse than any frost bitten steel.

“Play her.” Sansa utters. “For us. Daenerys will only listen if she believes to have the upper hand.” Time ticks on and Sansa whispers, voice broken, lapping at her broken love, "Please, Jon, please." They are both silent, but finally, he nods.

“Very well.” He croaks. “If that is what you wish.” It isn’t, she wishes to clarify, but it is what needs to be done.

Jon, her sweet, brave Jon returns to the Weirwood. Acting as if the Old Gods, the ones he claims abandoned them, will heal the both of them. She might have as well if not for the shatter of her bones, the abandoning of her soul, and the trap her tongue has tied for her.

Saying nothing else she leaves, pushing him behind. Sansa is forged of ice, steel, and the moon. She is of the North, it’s daughter. A wolf thrashing, cornered, ferocious in her own way. A Stark through and through.

But it seems while she has escaped Kings Landing and those who would put her in a cage, she is still trapped. They no longer dictate her life. However, she does, and the cage is gilded for the beauty in her eyes.

Her face is a blur of mass tears, she is no bird, but a wolf trapped in the same cage, and she has made it her own. No room to move, only to howl. unwanted and unneeded.

_Oh, what has she done?_


	35. All My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was made for the Jonsaexchange a while back, for the tumblr user @baelerion. It was my gift to her! I decided I should post it up here as well. 
> 
> The song I listened to while writing this is WILD- All My Life.

It began early Spring, when Sansa had returned to Winterfell Estate to visit her family during break. It was a summit of quiet afternoons, flower filled festivity, and a small town’s ability to keep her mindful, dreaming, loving.

Though, it really started when Jon had come to visit as well, it only took one look, the attraction had been immediate. He looked different from when she last saw him, baby-faced and brooding. But when she saw him again, bearded, certain, dark eyes roaming her over, something inside had snapped.

Sansa had done her best to hide it, now that she thinks about it, but hiding what she felt didn’t go over well in the end. They never really saw eye to eye as children, even then they still argued a tiny bit, but that didn’t stop either of them. She’d found him one evening just outside her family’s vineyard, smoke drifting from parted lips.

She could only mention, in that moment, that smoking was bad. It had gone from concern to flirtatious in a matter of seconds and somehow, despite Sansa being careful, she had found herself up against the shed, Jon thrusting into her without relent.

Afterwards it was never ending. He’d find her alone, or at night, and take her by the thighs. They had become brazen after the first couple of times, Jon would find ways to shag out in the vineyard, in the pool when no one was there, even his fucking car.

Eventually it came to a standstill in his room and that’s where it lasted. Where she learnt that it was more than just a quickie for both of them. Jon would take his time, just as she would, lap at her mound until she’d near scream. Before his guest room it had been unheard of that he would focus entirely on her.

But the second she stepped in, spread her legs, that’s all he focused on. She’d proffer her own service and he’d deny, and during early mornings she’d curl up to his chest. His toes rubbing at her feet, fingers drawing aimlessly about her back- somewhere along the line it became more.

Sansa would say she misses it, desperately, but she can’t. She really, really can’t.

When it came to their last goodbye about two months ago, when he’d dropped her off at the airport, they had agreed to stop then and there. Sansa had grown afraid of her feelings, after so many failed relationships that ended in manipulation and abuse, it has been hard to trust. While Jon would never harm her, Sansa’s trust always creates a fault, earning her a new bruise or damaged heart.

It was instinctive, to let him go like that, to push away when things were just getting good. Becoming a beacon or haven that she could find splendor in. However, Sansa strained what was left of them and claimed she would rather be friends. Jon, while normally passive, emoted in color when he heard her out. Even so he agreed.

One last hurray and they fucked in the driver’s seat, her shorts driven to the side as he plunged inside, hissing her name as she did his, thumb drawling over her nub as he’d bury his head in her shoulder, murmuring something she wishes she could forget. She hasn’t seen him since, it tears through her rapid and angry, aggression rearing it’s ugly head at her own undoing, and she can’t miss him. Especially not now.

Because here she is, in her kitchen biting away at a slab of bacon in a knitted fret as she waits for what feels like hours, even if it is only minutes. Ever since their last hook up she’s been acting up. Getting sick in the morning, unable to satiate her need for sweets (bacon), and worst of all her mood has been all over the place.

At first she thought it might just be that time of the month, since she’d missed it once, and she had been showing signs. But it never did. Marg told her this morning to get a pregnancy test or she’d regret it.

Sansa isn’t so sure now, the regret is already welling, twisting at her heart because she just knows what the answer will be and she’s not ready for that.

With an intense glare she dares the centerpiece of her attention to prove her wrong, hopes for it, and jumps when her phone chimes aloud. Sansa looks to who is calling and sighs. “What Marg?” She asks, voice soft and bitter but it’s all directed at herself. Margaery doesn’t let it get to her and Sansa is thankful for that.

“Do you know yet?” Sansa wants to sigh, to scream, to cry maybe, but doesn’t. Merely holds her breath.

“Not-” The timer goes off, Sansa swirls to press the button, and when she returns Marg is offered nothing but a still static. Only silence fills them both up as Sansa loses what composure she had.

Positive.

Fucking positive. Sansa heaves, her throat toiled like a fist, with a somber desperation Sansa finally speaks up after a moment of hesitation. “Marg, can you come over?” She nears a sob, lower lip quivering, not because of what she knows what is growing inside of her, but because she knows who it belongs to.

Who gave her that piece of himself when she has tried so hard to forget. Damn him, damn herself, they got carried away and now this. It had to have been the airport, their hurrah, but there’s so many times, so many opportunities…Sansa thinks her heart may implode.  

Margaery doesn’t waste her breath, urgent in her reply. “On my way.”

* * *

Jon had been told a while back, when Sansa had barely shown, eyes wide in worry as she admitted her pregnancy. Jon hadn’t known what he felt then, only a numbness that wrapped tight around his throat.

He’s still unsure, even now, but that doesn’t hold him back. He decided to come over today, having been concerned despite her telling him otherwise. He might have also wanted to see her, to hear her, and of course check up on what’s going down below.

It’s almost addictive. Visiting her as he does and finding here stomach larger than last time, even if that is impossible. It makes it feel real, all of this, what’s happening between them.

Jon can’t help but stare at the little bump that peeks through her shirt. Especially right now as he searches through her kitchen for ingredients, Sansa wandering in addled. “What are you doing?” She asks.

Jon stutters over his breath, the swell of her abdomen grabbing his attention immediately. He almost reaches out to touch her, though keeps his desires tied within himself and clenches his fist a second long.

“I’m making you something.” Is all Jon can say, returning to his previous intention- baking Sansa some lemon cakes. Jon knew she loved those, he would think she still would, however Sansa frowns.

“You don’t have to make me anything, Jon.” Following him in she eyes the gathered ingredients and winces. Jon sees this, his chest tightening, and he knows he chose the wrong sweet. “How about I bake something for you, I think that would be best, would you like-”

Jon is quick to say “You can’t eat lemon cake anymore, can you?” Jon can’t help but think that’s his fault. He despises lemon cakes, felt sick whenever he were over after school and Robb’s mother had them ready for a snack.

He never ate them, simply said he had enough at school, and she would carry on her merry way. But he knows how much Sansa loves them, she’s a fiend, smothers them all into her mouth and steals them from Robb and Arya. Even her mother.

Sansa shrugs, folding her arms with a small smile. “No, I can’t. Something about the taste.” At this he shakes his head.

“Sorry about that.” He murmurs.

Sansa looks on in concern, a shimmer of doubt in those hopeful eyes as she moves forward and takes his hand in hers. It’s like electricity, her touch, moving through him like a shockwave. Her skin is soft, a gentle mirade compared to his. He wonders if she feels it too, the sensation curving between them, but he knows that’s unlikely. Not after she dismissed their relationship, claiming it was nothing more than a dalliance.

It still hurts, what she told him, what she said they really should be. A piece of him thought they might actually be official, or something like that, once they were away from her family. Or more specifically Catelyn, and of course Robb and Arya, they’d throttle him until he lied dead.

Instead she asked if they could just be friends, that they had a fun time but it was time that it ended, and Jon accepted. Just like that he let her go. He doesn’t know why, to be honest, he thinks it had a lot with how she looked at him. One part desparate and three parts unacknowledged; there was no deciphering what else she felt, only that he knew agreeing would put her at ease.

Now it’s like there’s a hole in his chest ready to swallow him whole. It only worsens, both his regret and loss, when her thumb runs along his as she voices “Jon, it’s not your fault. My mom was the same. And my dad loves her lemon cakes.” Jon memorizes the change of her expression, soft, delicate, and nods. Her hand is small in his and he wishes he could lean in and take her mouth as he used to.

“Of course.” At that she lets him go, slowly, hanging on the verge of keeping them there, and walks around the island and sits down on a stool. Jon watches for a moment before putting everything away.

When he’s done she shoots him a great beam, like the sun she shines, and his breath yet again is stolen from him. “You know what you can make me?” He lifts a brow at this, folding his arms. “Bacon.” Jon can’t help himself, smirking at her as she claps her hands together in excitement.

“That’s what you’ve been craving?” He asks, incredulous. Because by hell that’s his favorite and Sansa has never liked bacon, he thinks she’s still a vegetarian, though he can’t remember. But you can’t help what you crave, and knowing Sansa it must have been a long fought battle to stay away.  

Sansa nods, enthused and bright. “And it’s your fault.” Jon shakes his head, sending her one last grin, and pulls out her griddle and what he’s found to be bacon strips in her fridge. He’s in the middle of it when Sansa says “Thank you.” Jon pauses, hinges, because she adds “For everything. For staying by my side and not wanting to get rid of the baby. I mean, I thought you might not want it, or might be mad at me, something like that and just…I seriously don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Jon turns to her, smiling with a tempered pain her way, and Sansa’s mouth gapes open. “Sans, I would never leave you on your own. You know that.” The tension becomes uncomfortably thick, in an attempt to lighten it, he begins again. “And what’s better than having a baby with a friend?”

Sansa seems to catch on, twitching although she laughs alongside him. “I guess your right.” Sansa lays a hand on her stomach in thought. “But I should have said it all sooner.” Her mouth bobbles like a goldfish as if she has more to say, but nothing comes out. Not as he’d like.

Sansa’s hand never lifts from her stomach either. Jon licks his lips, watching her, Sansa taking notice. She snickers his way. “Do you want to feel, I mean there’s no kicking, but you can if you want.”

Jon is hesitant at first, but moves forward anyways. He’s close to her, sitting on the stool across from Sansa, when he doesn’t move thereafter she pulls him in. Her hand holding his once again and planting it on her stomach.

Except this time she doesn’t pull from him, rather intertwines their fingers where their baby should be. He might think it meant something more, he really wants to, but she said ‘friends’. It must be a spur of the moment thing, like they were, and like all things Sansa wishes to treasure it.

He decides in this moment, while they may be nothing more than friends, no matter how that pains him, at least they have this. The tangible moments wherein she jests as she used to, holds to him as she did in bed, and most importantly is just around.

Jon is not as numb as he used to be, still uncertain of this child to be, but he does know he’s grateful for it. Jon’s always wanted a family, and he’s getting that with Sansa no matter their future relation. Jon adores Sansa, he thinks he loves her, but she doesn’t feel the same. Therefore he should be happy with what he has, he must be.

Even if he’d prefer they were closer, he can’t deny this, and is settled with what he can obtain.

* * *

It had been Rhaenys’ idea. She wanted to get to know the woman who would being giving her a niece or nephew. Jon asked her not to tell Sansa he told her, all considering it was supposed to stay a secret until she felt comfortable with the news, yet Rhae did what she wanted.

They’re at the park now, a dog one to be exact, Sansa walks Lady with a smirk. A hand resting on her stomach- it’s gotten bigger. A round thing that protrudes outwards in the most sublime way.

And they’d just returned from the steak house down town, a small family joint that has cheap chicken but the best sauce. Sansa loves it there for the cornbread, and now the steak. Ghost is tripping him up as they walk, Jon silent as his sister and Sansa speak.

He doesn’t really pay it any heed, his eyes either drawn on the path or Sansa. Though, he admits, he has gawked at her stomach far more than he thought was appropriate. Jon didn’t know what was wrong with him, it was as if a sudden pride had welled inside him one day and it hasn’t left.

Even now, the swell within her stomach sits so perfectly there, as if it fit Sansa the way a puzzle piece does. Like she were meant to be a mother, she’s absolutely glowing, and Jon has an instinctive delight, or even satisfaction, in knowing it belongs to him. That he put that child inside her. That she rests her hands there with a reserve and love only extended to what they created.

“Jon?” It’s his name that stirs him from his thoughts, his attention now slathered across Sansa as she and Rhaenys look on. Sansa confused and Rhaneys amused. Jon doesn’t like that look- it’s that same look Rhae used when she’d lie down and scream he pushed her when he wouldn’t do what she wanted.

Pinching the bridge of his nose for a short moment Sansa continues. “Are you alright, do we need to sit down?” Jon shakes his head.

“No, I’m good. But I’m not opposed to a break.” Sansa nods at this and wanders off with the two of them in tow.

They’re far enough behind that Rhaenys must feel it’s safe to ask “So, when is the wedding?” Jon gapes at her, near halting his pace, though he trips more than he stops.

“What do you mean?” Jon thought he explained their predicament already?

Rhaenys glances back at Sansa ahead of them, who waves them over at the nice spot she’s found them all. In the grass, but under a tree and near a bench. Perfect for all three. And as always, Sansa is a people pleaser, being certain that everyone gets what they want from the situation.

Another reason he’s proud they’re having a kid together. Sansa will be a wonderful mother and teach the child respect, how to love and dream. Jon hinders, sighs, groans maybe, because he’s doing it again. Practically revering her for bearing his child. Their child. Jon wonders when it will end- likely never.

Rhaneys shoves him a bit with her shoulder as they continue on. “Well, I thought when I said wedding it was clear?” Jon clenches his fist at this, light, but it is his only lifeline.

In this light Sansa looks a beauty, she’s already one, but there’s a way the sunlight drips around her that resembles a halo- it catches his throat and tugs his heart into a gigantic leap. Jon knows he’s still caught in her web, it’s undeniable, and it’s getting harder everyday to want to just be friends.

Just friends.

Jon is curious if she really does feel that way. If she pends on something more as he does, late at night, void of all want but each other. Though, he’s certain that’s a farfetched fantasy of his that consumes him whole, due to his denial.

Sansa would have stayed with him if she thought differently, he thinks, and he would hope if Sansa felt that way after finding out she was pregnant with his child she’d initiate something more rather than this ‘stupendous’ friendship they’ve got going.

He might as well stick with it if it’s all he’s going to get. Jon shrugs. “We’re just friends, nothing more, I told you this already.” Jon reiterates.

Rhaenys lifts a brow, much like their mother does, slim and pert. Elia would be proud. “So you’re just friends, hanging out at a park with your big sister, and just so happen to be having a baby?” Oh God, she sounds just like mother too.

This is why he didn’t tell her. Though, thinking about it now, she’s going to put him through hell for not telling her sooner. Mother has a way with her cunning that is comes across as a sweet wit. However, Jon know’s better, and the brunt of it will follow him soon enough.

Jon regrets it before it can pose a threat. Rhaenys shakes her head in a saddened disappointment. “Yes.” Rhaneys makes an annoyed sound before Jon can say anymore. “Like I said, we’re friends with a baby, nothing’s wrong with that.” Jon defends. “Just last night she told me I should go out, get a date, live a little. Like friends do.”

“Like friends with a baby.” Rhaenys folds her arms. “Wonder how that will go down with any of your dates?” Jon scowls her way. Doesn’t mean she’s not right. But that also doesn’t mean he can’t dislike what she just said.

“Rhaneys.” Jon warns.

She rolls her eyes. “So you have no feelings for her, whatsoever?” Jon nods.

“Of course. We’re friends that had a little…accident.” She doesn’t look at him after that, biting her lip in an agitation he knows she shields. Jon tries not to let it get to him, staring forward.

They’re nearing Sansa now, a pretty smile on the petal of her lips, and goodness he wishes he could just kiss her. But that isn’t allowed, is it? Not when she so obviously dislikes the idea. He wishes he could just shut it off, these feelings he’s accumulated for her, that this wouldn’t be so messy.

Jon wishes he could not love her- that’s what this is, right? Endless hours upon hours of thinking about her, how she tastes, how she sounds, the way she smiles and cares and loves; he hasn’t felt this way since Ygritte.

He’s afraid it’s worse since her. Since he was able to control and keep his emotions behind a brooding mask. Now he can only gaze at Sansa with a visible adoration. Jon knows she see’s it too, how she ignores it, pretends he’s never even laid eyes on her.

It’s that, or his hope coming to life, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself either. That she’s made a mistake and doesn’t know how to fix it. But he know’s that isn’t the case. It’s him believing the happy ending he’ll never get with her.

Jon is stopped short when Rhaenys halts a second longer than usual, looks between them, and with a caring tone puts forth “Just to let you know, in case you couldn’t tell,” She points between the two of them, “ ‘just friends’ don’t look at eachother like that. You need to stop waiting and hoping and take charge Jon, or you’ll never be happy.”

Jon snaps out of it, heart thrumming as he realizes Sansa now hides her face. Had she heard too?

* * *

 Sansa is in shock, horrid, heart-stopping shock.

Jon is looking at her, deep grey eyes peering through her soul, awaiting a response. It’s as if she could get lost in those eyes for centuries and never have to break through for air, it suffocates, tightens as she tries to think up what she wants to say. What she feels.

When Sansa had said they should be friends it had been a misjudgement on her part, that piece of herself still covered in scars and bruises and broken bloody by those she thought she could trust.

Had been tricked by sugar-coated fallacy, burned away by those who seeked to tear her down, and that past had affected her confidence in Jon. It was a mistake, a torrid affair that cut at her skin like a knife made of frozen fire.

Sansa pushed and kept pushing because that girl then, the girl who knew only fear had deemed it protection, was afraid. But she has grown from lessons learned and has kept her faith in Jon despite what has happened. What she has done.

A piece of her hoped, so thin and flat-lined, that he might feel the same. That he would hold on just as she does. It was stupid of her to think that of course, to believe he might still love her in those moments between them, between everything, between the world, without having to say a word.

Sansa might even admit it’s ridiculous to even think that in the first place. But here she lies now, having just woken up with Jon at her side, kneeling at the side of her bed face to face.

He’s blurry eyed, still waking, though manages to look as handsome as ever. Glasses tilted upwards, a hopeful smirk on his lips, her heart thrums and she turns to pudding. Because right before her, on his one knee, is a ring in his palm.

Jon hasn’t said anything yet but Sansa is on a road to tears, no doubt they’ll appear any moment now.

He takes a deep breath, swallows his fear, and pushes forward just as she does. “Sansa Stark…I…” Sansa shakes her head, near sitting up, but he holds her down with the gentle placement of his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know where to begin honestly.”

She’s about to speak up but he beats her to it. “I know we’ve been through a lot, and I’m very much putting myself out here, but all I know is how I feel. Right now in this moment, Sans, I want you and I need you.” She thinks she might burst into a ray of sunshine without postpartum. Is this really happening?

“We’re having a baby, starting a family, and I love you like I’ve never loved anyone else. And I was told I needed to stop pretending this,” He points between them, “Isn’t what I want. Because it is, this isn’t some story or song, it’s real, and I’d really like to see this through. To protect you, to struggle and learn with you. Hell, I want to see us on our darkest days and our brightest because that wouldn’t change us Sans,” Jon grabs her hand, his fist cascaded over her own, “I want to extend our family and our lives with each other, to love you all my life, and for you to only do one thing in return.” Sansa’s breath catches, tears pebbling at her cheeks. “To love me too, all your life.”

There’s silence, a tear in her world where she is built up again from where she was left broken, that hope she should have abandoned healed. Sansa’s sure as she processes it all, with how she gapes, she looks a goldfish. Suspended in thought, the quaver in her pulse bringing her back to him.

She takes so long to answer, amidst the surprise, that Jon frowns. Loosening his grip on her hand as he near pulls away. However, Sansa moves as fast as she can in her state, embracing Jon with a strength she didn’t know herself capable of.

Kissing his cheek, then his mouth, soft and tender, she looks him in the eyes and laughs her joy- notwithstanding the souse on her cheeks. “Yes.” Sansa renders herself completely to him, leaning forward. “Yes, I’ll love you all my life.” Jon smiles like he never has before.

Wide and brilliant and full of life. Sansa’s breath is taken away as she witnesses the way it creases those dreadful eyes, lightens his complexion, and best of all pinches his cheeks into something far more delectable. It makes her feel serene, on top of the world, high above everyone else that lurked, and all’s right with the world.

Jon cups her cheek a second long, takes her hand and slides the ring on, a sterling silver band embedded in a row of diamonds, and kisses her blindly. Sansa wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope ya'll enjoyed.


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